COMPLETE 
WORKS  OF 
£  FRANK  £ 
&  NORRIS  X 


PAULINE  FORE  MOFFITT 
LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
^GENERAL  LIBRARY,  BERKELEY 


THIS   EDITION  CONSISTS  OF  ONE    HUNDRED 
SETS,    ON    STRATHMORE    PAPER, 
OF    WHICH    THIS    IS 
NO.  U-0 


BLIX 

AND 

MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 


GOLDEN       GATE      EDITION 


BLIX-MORAN 

OF  THE 
LADY  LETTY 


COMPLETE 
WORKS  OF 

WRANRC 
NORRJS? 


Published  at  New 'York  ky 

,  Pag*  &-  Co. 

1905 


Copyright,  1899,  by 
Frank  A.  Munsey 
Copyright,  1899,  by 
Doubleday  &  McClure  Co. 
Copyright,  1898,  by 
S.  S.  McClure  Co. 


Add   to  Lib. 

GIFT 


DEDICATED  TO 

MY  MOTHER 


403 


BLIX 


BLIX 

IT  had  just  struck  nine  from  the  cuckoo  clock  that 
hung  over  the  mantelpiece  in  the  dining-room 
when  Victorine  brought  in  the  halved  watermelon 
and  set  it  in  front  of  Mr.  Bessemer's  plate.  Then 
she  went  down  to  the  front  door  for  the  damp, 
twisted  roll  of  the  Sunday  morning's  paper,  and 
came  back  and  rang  the  breakfast  bell  for  the 
second  time. 

As  the  family  still  hesitated  to  appear,  she  went  to 
the  bay  window  at  the  end  of  the  room,  and  stood  there 
for  a  moment  looking  out.  The  view  was  wonderful. 
The  Bessemers  lived  upon  the  Washington-Street  hill, 
almost  at  its  very  summit,  in  a  flat  in  the  third  story  of 
the  building.  The  contractor  had  been  clever  enough  to 
reverse  the  position  of  kitchen  and  dining-room,  so  that 
the  latter  room  was  at  the  rear  of  the  house.  From  its 
windows  one  could  command  a  sweep  of  San  Francisco 
Bay  and  the  Contra  Costa  shore,  from  Mount  Diablo, 
along  past  Oakland,  Berkeley,  Saucelito,  and  Mount 
Tamalpais,  out  to  the  Golden  Gate,  the  Presidio,  the 
ocean,  and  even — on  very  clear  days — to  the  Farrallone 
islands. 

For  some  time  Victorine  stood  looking  down  at  the 
great  expanse  of  land  and  sea,  then  faced  about  with 
an  impatient  exclamation. 

On  Sundays  all  the  week-day  regime  of  the  family  was 
deranged,  and  breakfast  was  a  movable  feast,  to  be  had 
any  time  after  seven  or  before  half-past  nine.  As 
Victorine  was  pouring  the  ice-water,  Mr.  Bessemer  him- 

3 


4  BLIX 

self  came  in,  and  addressed  himself  at  once  to  his  meal, 
without  so  much  as  a  thought  of  waiting  for  others. 

He  was  a  little  round  man.  He  wore  a  skull-cap  to 
keep  his  bald  spot  warm,  and  read  his  paper  through  a 
reading-glass.  The  expression  of  his  face,  wrinkled  and 
bearded,  the  eyes  shadowed  by  enormous  gray  eyebrows, 
was  that  of  an  amiable  gorilla. 

Bessemer  was  one  of  those  men  who  seem  entirely 
disassociated  from  their  families.  Only  on  rare  and 
intense  occasions  did  his  paternal  spirit  or  instincts 
assert  themselves.  At  table  he  talked  but  little. 
Though  devotedly  fond  of  his  eldest  daughter,  she  was 
a  puzzle  and  a  stranger  to  him.  His  interests  and  hers 
were  absolutely  dissimilar.  The  children  he  seldom 
spoke  to  but  to  reprove;  while  Howard,  the  son,  the 
ten-year-old  and  terrible  infant  of  the  household,  he 
always  referred  to  as  "that  boy." 

He  was  an  abstracted,  self-centred  old  man,  with  but 
two  hobbies — homoeopathy  and  the  mechanism  of  clocks. 
But  he  had  a  strange  way  of  talking  to  himself  in  a  low 
voice,  keeping  up  a  running,  half-whispered  comment 
upon  his  own  doings  and  actions;  as,  for  instance,  upon 
this  occasion:  "Nine  o'clock — the  clock's  a  little  fast. 
I  think  I'll  wind  my  watch.  No,  I've  forgotten  my 
watch.  Watermelon  this  morning,  eh?  Where's  a 
knife?  I'll  have  a  little  salt.  Victorine's  forgot  the 
spoons — ah,  here's  a  spoon!  No,  it's  a  knife  I  want." 

After  he  had  finished  his  watermelon,  and  while 
Victorine  was  pouring  his  coffee,  the  two  children  came 
in,  scrambling  to  their  places,  and  drumming  on  the 
table  with  their  knife-handles. 

The  son  and  heir,  Howard,  was  very  much  a  boy.  He 
played  baseball  too  well  to  be  a  very  good  boy,  and  for 
the  sake  of  his  own  self-respect  maintained  an  attitude 
of  perpetual  revolt  against  his  older  sister,  who,  as  much 


BLIX  5 

as  possible,  took  the  place  of  the  mother,  long  since  dead. 
Under  her  supervision,  Howard  blacked  his  own  shoes 
every  morning  before  breakfast,  changed  his  underclothes 
twice  a  week,  and  was  dissuaded  from  playing  with  the 
dentist's  son  who  lived  three  doors  below  and  who  had 
St.  Vitus'  dance. 

His  little  sister  was  much  more  tractable.  She  had 
been  christened  Alberta,  and  was  called  Snooky.  She 
promised  to  be  pretty  when  she  grew  up,  but  was  at  this 
time  in  that  distressing  transitional  stage  between 
twelve  and  fifteen;  was  long-legged,  and  endowed  with 
all  the  awkwardness  of  a  colt.  Her  shoes  were  still 
innocent  of  heels ;  but  on  those  occasions  when  she  was 
allowed  to  wear  her  tiny  first  pair  of  corsets  she  was 
exalted  to  an  almost  celestial  pitch  of  silent  ecstasy. 
The  clasp  of  the  miniature  stays  around  her  small  body 
was  like  the  embrace  of  a  little  lover,  and  awoke  in  her 
ideas  that  were  as  vague,  as  immature  and  unformed 
as  the  straight  little  figure  itself. 

When  Snooky  and  Howard  had  seated  themselves, 
but  one  chair — at  the  end  of  the  breakfast  table, 
opposite  Mr.  Bessemer — remained  vacant. 

"  Is  your  sister — is  Miss  Travis  going  to  have  her 
breakfast  now  ?  Is  she  got  up  yet  ? "  inquired  Victorine 
of  Howard  and  Snooky,  as  she  pushed  the  cream  pitcher 
out  of  Howard's  reach.  It  was  significant  of  Mr. 
Bessemer's  relations  with  his  family  that  Victorine  did 
not  address  her  question  to  him. 

"Yes,  yes,  she's  coming,"  said  both  the  children, 
speaking  together;  and  Howard  added:  "Here  she 
comes  now." 

Travis  Bessemer  came  in.  Even  in  San  Francisco, 
where  all  women  are  more  or  less  beautiful,  Travis  passed 
for  a  beautiful  girl.  She  was  young,  but  tall  as  most 
men,  and  solidly,  almost  heavily  built.  Her  shoulders 


6  BLIX 

were  broad,  her  chest  was  deep,  her  neck  round  and  firm. 
She  radiated  health ;  there  were  exuberance  and  vitality 
in  the  very  touch  of  her  foot  upon  the  carpet,  and  there 
was  that  cleanliness  about  her,  that  freshness,  that  sug 
gested  a  recent  plunge  in  the  surf  and  a  "  constitutional " 
along  the  beach.  One  felt  that  here  were  stamina,  good 
physical  force,  and  fine  animal  vigour.  Her  arms  were 
large,  her  wrists  were  large,  and  her  fingers  did  not  taper. 
Her  hair  was  of  a  brown  so  light  as  to  be  almost  yellow. 
In  fact,  it  would  be  safer  to  call  it  yellow  from  the  start 
— not  golden  nor  flaxen,  but  plain,  honest  yellow.  The 
skin  of  her  face  was  clean  and  white,  except  where  it 
flushed  to  a  most  charming  pink  upon  her  smooth,  cool 
cheeks.  Her  lips  were  full  and  red,  her  chin  very  round 
and  a  little  salient.  Curiously  enough,  her  eyes  were 
small — small,  but  of  the  deepest,  deepest  brown,  and 
always  twinkling  and  alight,  as  though  she  were  just 
ready  to  smile  or  had  just  done  smiling,  one  could  not 
say  which.  And  nothing  could  have  been  more  delight 
ful  than  those  sloe-brown,  glinting  little  eyes  of  hers  set 
off  by  her  white  skin  and  yellow  hair. 

She  impressed  one  as  being  a  very  normal  girl :  nothing 
morbid  about  her,  nothing  nervous  or  false  or  over 
wrought.  You  did  not  expect  to  find  her  introspective. 
You  felt  sure  that  her  mental  life  was  not  at  all  the  result 
of  thoughts  and  reflections  germinating  from  within, 
but  rather  of  impressions  and  sensations  that  came  to  her 
from  without.  There  was  nothing  extraordinary  about 
Travis.  She  never  had  her  vagaries,  was  not  moody- 
depressed  one  day  and  exalted  the  next.  She  was  just  a 
good,  sweet,  natural,  healthy-minded,  healthy-bodied 
girl,  honest,  strong,  self-reliant  and  good-tempered. 

Though  she  was  not  yet  dressed  for  church,  there  was 
style  in  her  to  the  pointed  tips  of  her  patent-leather 
slippers.  She  wore  a  heavy  black  overskirt  that  rustled 


BLIX  7 

in  delicious  fashion  over  the  coloured  silk  skirt  beneath, 
and  a  white  shirt-waist,  striped  black,  and  starched  to 
a  rattling  stiffness.  Her  neck  was  swathed  tight  and 
high  with  a  broad  ribbon  of  white  satin,  while  around 
her  waist,  in  place  of  a  belt,  she  wore  the  huge  dog- 
collar  of  a  St.  Bernard — a  chic  little  idea  which  was  all 
her  own,  and  of  which  she  was  very  proud. 

She  was  as  trig  and  trim  and  crisp  as  a  crack  yacht : 
not  a  pin  was  loose,  not  a  seam  that  did  not  fall  in  its 
precise  right  line;  and  with  every  movement  there 
emanated  from  her  a  barely  perceptible  delicious  femi 
nine  odour — an  odour  that  was  in  part  perfume,  but 
mostly  a  subtle,  vague  smell,  charming  beyond  words, 
that  came  from  her  hair,  her  neck,  her  arms — her  whole 
sweet  personality.  She  was  nineteen  years  old. 

She  sat  down  to  breakfast  and  ate  heartily,  though 
with  her  attention  divided  between  Howard — who  was 
atrociously  bad,  as  usual  of  a  Sunday  morning — and  her 
father's  plate.  Mr.  Bessemer  was  as  like  as  not  to  leave 
the  table  without  any  breakfast  at  all  unless  his  fruit, 
chops  and  coffee  were  actually  thrust  under  his  nose. 

"Paptim,"  she  called,  speaking  clear  and  distinct, 
as  though  to  the  deaf,  "there's  your  coffee  there  at  your 
elbow;  be  careful,  you'll  tip  it  over.  Victorine,  push 
his  cup  farther  on  the  table.  Is  it  strong  enough  for  you, 
Papum?" 

"Eh!  Ah,  yes — yes — yes,"  murmured  the  old  man, 
looking  vaguely  about  him;  "coffee,  to  be  sure" — and  he 
emptied  the  cup  at  a  single  draught,  hardly  knowing 
whether  it  was  coffee  or  tea.  "Now  I'll  take  a  roll," 
he  continued,  in  a  monotonous  murmur.  "Where 
are  the  rolls?  Here  they  are.  Hot  rolls  are  bad  for 
my  digestion — I  ought  to  eat  bread.  I  think  I  eat  too 
much.  Where's  my  place  in  the  paper? — always  lose 
my  place  in  the  paper.  Clever  editorials  this  fellow 


8  BLIX 

Eastman  writes,  unbiassed  by  party  prejudice — unbi 
assed — unbiassed."  His  voice  died  to  a  whisper. 

The  breakfast  proceeded,  Travis  supervising  every 
thing  that  went  forward,  even  giving  directions  to 
Victorine  as  to  the  hour  for  serving  dinner.  It  was 
while  she  was  talking  to  Victorine  as  to  this  matter  that 
Snooky  began  to  whine. 

"Stop!" 

"And  tell  Maggie,"  pursued  Travis,  "to  fricassee  her 
chicken,  and  not  to  have  it  too  well  done " 

"Sto-o-op  !"  whined  Snooky  again. 

"  And  leave  the  heart  out  for  Papum.  He  likes 
the  heart " 

"  Sto-o-op !" 

"Unbiassed  by  prejudice,"  murmured  Mr.  Bessemer, 
"vigourous  and  to  the  point.  I'll  have  another  roll." 

"Pa,  make  Howard  stop  !" 

"Howard!"  exclaimed  Travis;  "what  is  it  now?" 

"Howard's  squirting  watermelon-seeds  at  me,"  whined 
Snooky,  "and  pa  won't  make  him  stop." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  so  !"  vociferated  Howard.  "I  only  held 
one  between  my  fingers,  and  it  just  kind  of  shot  out." 

"You'll  come  upstairs  with  me  in  just  five  minutes," 
announced  Travis,  "and  get  ready  for  Sunday-school." 

Howard  knew  that  his  older  sister's  decisions  were  as 
the  laws  of  the  Persians,  and  found  means  to  finish  his 
breakfast  within  the  specified  time,  though  not  without 
protest.  Once  upstairs,  however,  the  usual  Sunday- 
morning  drama  of  despatching  him  to  Sunday-school  in 
presentable  condition  was  enacted.  At  every  moment 
his  voice  could  be  heard  uplifted  in  shrill  expostula 
tion  and  debate.  No,  his  hands  were  clean  enough, 
and  he  didn't  see  why  he  had  to  wear  that  little  old 
pink  tie;  and,  oh !  his  new  shoes  were  too  tight  and  hurt 
his  sore  toe;  and  he  wouldn't,  he  wouldn't — no,  not  if  he 


BLIX  9 

were  killed  for  it,  change  his  shirt.  Not  for  a  moment 
did  Travis  lose  her  temper  with  him.  But  "very  well," 
she  declared  at  length,  "the  next  time  she  saw  that 
little  Miner  girl  she  would  tell  her  that  he  had  said  she 
was  his  beau-heart.  Now  would  he  hold  still  while  she 
brushed  his  hair?" 

At  a  few  minutes  before  eleven  Travis  and  her  father 
went  to  church.  They  were  Episcopalians,  and  for 
time  out  of  mind  had  rented  a  half-pew  in  the  church 
of  their  denomination  on  California  Street,  not  far  from 
Chinatown.  By  noon  the  family  reassembled  at  dinner- 
table,  where  Mr.  Bessemer  ate  his  chicken-heart — after 
Travis  had  thrice  reminded  him  of  it — and  expressed 
himself  as  to  the  sermon  and  the  minister's  theology; 
sometimes  to  his  daughter  and  sometimes  to  himself. 

After  dinner  Howard  and  Snooky  foregathered  in  the 
nursery  with  their  beloved  lead  soldiers ;  Travis  went  to 
her  room  to  write  letters;  and  Mr.  Bessemer  sat  in  the 
bay  window  of  the  dining-room  reading  the  paper  from 
end  to  end. 

At  five  Travis  bestirred  herself.  It  was  Victorine's 
afternoon  out.  Travis  set  the  table,  spreading  a  cover 
of  blue  denim  edged  with  white  braid,  which  showed 
off  the  silver  and  the  set  of  delft — her  great  and  never- 
ending  joy — to  great  effect.  Then  she  tied  her  apron 
about  her,  and  went  into  the  kitchen  to  make  the  mayon 
naise  dressing  for  the  potato  salad,  to  slice  the  ham, 
and  to  help  the  cook  (a  most  inefficient  Irish  person, 
taken  on  only  for  that  month  during  the  absence  of  the 
family's  beloved  and  venerated  Sing  Wo)  in  the  matter 
of  preparing  the  Sunday-evening  tea. 

Tea  was  had  at  half-past  five.  Never  in  the  history 
of  the  family  had  its  menu  varied:  cold  ham,  potato 
salad,  pork  and  beans,  canned  fruit,  chocolate,  and  the 
inevitable  pitcher  of  ice-water. 


io  BLIX 

In  the  absence  of  Victorine,  Maggie  waited  on  the 
table,  very  uncomfortable  in  her  one  good  dress  and 
stiff  white  apron.  She  stood, off  from  the  table,  making 
awkward  dabs  at  it  from  time  to  time.  In  her  excess  of 
deference  she  developed  a  clumsiness  that  was  beyond 
all  expression.  She  passed  the  plates  upon  the  wrong 
side,  and  remembered  herself  with  a  broken  apology  at 
inopportune  moments.  She  dropped  a  spoon ;  she  spilt 
the  ice-water.  She  handled  the  delft  cups  and  platters 
with  an  exaggerated  solicitude,  as  though  they  were 
glass  bombs.  She  brushed  the  crumbs  into  their  laps 
instead  of  into  the  crumb-tray,  and  at  last,  when  she 
had  set  even  Travis'  placid  nerves  in  a  jangle,  was 
dismissed  to  the  kitchen,  and  retired  with  a  gasp  of 
unspeakable  relief. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  prolonged  trilling  of  the 
electric  bell,  and  Howard  flashed  a  grin  at  Travis. 
Snooky  jumped  up  and  pushed  back,  crying  out:  "I'll 
go!  I'll  go!" 

Mr.  Bessemer  glanced  nervously  at  Travis.  "That's 
Mr.  Rivers,  isn't  it,  daughter?"  Travis  smiled.  "Well, 
I  think  I'll — I  think  I'd  better "  he  began. 

"No,"  said  Travis,  "I  don't  want  you  to,  Papum; 
you  sit  right  where  you  are.  How  absurd  !" 

The  old  man  dropped  obediently  back  into  his  seat. 

"That's  all  right,  Maggie,"  said  Travis  as  the  cook 
reappeared  from  the  pantry.  "Snooky  went." 

"Huh!"  exclaimed  Howard,  his  grin  widening. 
"Huh!" 

"And  remember  one  thing,  Howard,"  remarked 
Travis  calmly;  "don't  you  ever  again  ask  Mr.  Rivers 
for  a  nickel  to  put  in  your  bank." 

Mr.  Bessemer  roused  up.  "Did  that  boy  do  that?" 
he  inquired  sharply  of  Travis. 

"Well,  well,  he  won't  do  it  again,"  said  Travis  sooth- 


BLIX 


ii 


ingly.  The  old  man  glared  for  an  instant  at  Howard, 
who  shifted  uneasily  in  his  seat.  But  meanwhile 
Snooky  had  clamoured  down  to  the  outside  door,  and 
before  anything  further  could  be  said  young  Rivers 
came  into  the  dining-room. 


II 


FOR  some  reason,  never  made  sufficiently  clear, 
Rivers'  parents  had  handicapped  him  from  the  bap 
tismal  font  with  the  praenomen  of  Cond6,  which,  how 
ever,  upon  Anglo-Saxon  tongues,  had  been  promptly 
modified  to  Condy,  or  even,  amongst  his  familiar  and 
intimate  friends,  to  Conny.  Asked  as  to  his  birth 
place — for  no  Californian  assumes  that  his  neighbour 
is  born  in  the  State — Condy  was  wont  to  reply  that  he 
was  "bawn  V  rais'  "  in  Chicago;  "but,"  he  always 
added,  "I  couldn't  help  that,  you  know."  His  people 
had  come  West  in  the  early  eighties,  just  in  time  to 
bury  the  father  in  alien  soil.  Condy  was  an  only  child. 
He  was  educated  at  the  State  University,  had  a  finishing 
year  at  Yale,  and  a  few  months  after  his  return  home 
was  taken  on  the  staff  of  the  San  Francisco  Daily  Times 
as  an  associate  editor  of  its  Sunday  supplement.  For 
Condy  had  developed  a  taste  and  talent  in  the  matter 
of  writing.  Short  stories  were  his  mania.  He  had  begun 
by  an  inoculation  of  the  Kipling  virus,  had  suffered  an 
almost  fatal  attack  of  Harding  Davis,  and  had  even 
been  affected  by  Maupassant.  He  "went  in"  for  accu 
racy  of  detail ;  held  that  if  one  wrote  a  story  involving 
firemen  one  should  have,  or  seem  to  have,  every  detail 
of  the  department  at  his  fingers'  ends,  and  should 
"bring  in"  to  the  tale  all  manner  of  technical  names 
and  cant  phrases. 

Much  of  his  work  on  the  Sunday  supplements  of  the 
Daily  Times  was  of  the  hack  order — special  articles, 
write-ups,  and  interviews.  About  once  a  month, 

12 


BLIX  13 

however,  he  wrote  a  short  story,  and  of  late,  now  that 
he  was  convalescing  from  Maupassant  and  had  begun 
to  be  somewhat  himself,  these  stories  had  improved  in 
quality,  and  one  or  two  had  even  been  copied  in  the 
Eastern  journals.  He  earned  $100  a  month. 

When  Snooky  had  let  him  in,  Rivers  dashed  up  the 
stairs  of  the  Bessemers'  flat,  two  at  a  time,  tossed  his 
stick  into  a  porcelain  cane-rack  in  the  hall,  wrenched 
off  his  overcoat  with  a  single  movement,  and  precipitated 
himself,  panting,  into  the  dining-room,  tugging  at  his 
gloves. 

He  was  twenty-eight  years  old — nearly  ten  years 
older  than  Travis;  tall  and  somewhat  lean;  his  face 
smooth-shaven  and  pink  all  over,  as  if  he  had  just  given 
it  a  violent  rubbing  with  a  crash  towel.  Unlike  most 
writing  folk,  he  dressed  himself  according  to  prevailing 
custom.  But  Condy  overdid  the  matter.  His  scarfs 
and  cravats  were  too  bright,  his  coloured  shirt-bosoms 
were  too  broadly  barred,  his  waistcoats  too  extreme. 
Even  Travis,  as  she  rose  to  his  abrupt  entrance,  told 
herself  that  of  a  Sunday  evening  a  pink  shirt  and  scarlet 
tie  were  a  combination  hardly  to  be  forgiven. 

Condy  shook  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  then  rushed 
over  to  Mr.  Bessemer,  exclaiming  between  breaths: 
"Don't  get  up,  sir — don't  think  of  it!  Heavens!  I'm 
disgustingly  late.  You're  all  through.  My  watch — 
this  beastly  watch  of  mine — I  can't  imagine  how  I  came 
to  be  so  late.  You  did  quite  right  not  to  wait." 

Then  as  his  morbidly  keen  observation  caught  a  cer 
tain  look  of  blankness  on  Travis'  face,  and  his  rapid 
glance  noted  no  vacant  chair  at  table,  he  gave  a  quick 
gasp  of  dismay. 

"Heavens  and  earth  !  didn't  you  expect  me  !"  he  cried. 
"I  thought  you  said — I  thought— I  must  have  forgotten 
— I  must  have  got  it  mixed  up  somehow.  What  a 


i4  BLIX 

hideous  mistake !  What  a  blunder !  What  a  fool 
I  am!" 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  against  the  wall  and  mopped 
his  forehead  with  a  blue-bordered  handkerchief. 

"Well,  what  difference  does  it  make,  Condy?"  said 
Travis  quietly.  "I'll  put  another  place  for  you." 

"No  !"  he  vociferated,  jumping  up.  "I  won't  hear  of 
it !  I  won't  permit  it !  You'll  think  I  did  it  on  purpose  !" 

Travis  ignored  his  interference,  and  made  a  place  for 
him  opposite  the  children,  and  had  Maggie  make  some 
more  chocolate. 

Condy  meanwhile  covered  himself  with  opprobrium. 

"And  all  this  trouble — I  always  make  trouble  every 
where  I  go.  Always  a  round  man  in  a  square  hole,  or  a 
square  man  in  a  round  hole." 

He  got  up  and  sat  down  again,  crossed  and  recrossed 
his  legs,  picked  up  little  ornaments  from  the  mantel 
piece,  and  replaced  them  without  consciousness  of  what 
they  were,  and  finally  broke  the  crystal  of  his  watch  as 
he  was  resetting  it  by  the  cuckoo  clock. 

"Hallo!"  he  exclaimed  suddenly;  "where  did  you 
get  that  clock  ?  Where  did  you  get  that  clock  ?  That's 
new  to  me.  Where  did  that  come  from?" 

"That  cuckoo  clock?"  inquired  Travis,  with  a  stare. 
"Condy  Rivers,  you've  been  here  and  in  this  room  at 
least  twice  a  week  for  the  last  year  and  a  half,  and 
that  clock,  and  no  other,  has  always  hung  there." 

But  already  Condy  had  forgotten  or  lost  interest  in 
the  clock. 

"Is  that  so?"  he  murmured  absent-mindedly,  seating 
himself  at  the  table. 

Mr.  Bessemer  was  murmuring:  "That  clock's  a  little 
fast.  I  cannot  make  that  clock  keep  time.  Victorine 
has  lost  the  key.  I  have  to  wind  it  with  a  monkey- 
wrench.  Now  I'll  try  some  more  beans.  Maggie  has 


BLIX  15 

put  in  too  much  pepper.  I'll  have  to  have  a  new  key 
made  to-morrow." 

"Hey?  Yes — yes.  Is  that  so?"  answered  Condy 
Rivers,  bewildered,  wishing  to  be  polite,  yet  unable  to 
follow  the  old  man's  mutterings. 

"He's  not  talking  to  you,"  remarked  Travis,  without 
lowering  her  voice.  "You  know  how  Papum  goes  on. 
He  won't  hear  a  word  you  say.  Well,  I  read  your  story 
in  this  morning's  Times." 

A  few  moments  later,  while  Travis  and  Condy  were 
still  discussing  this  story,  Mr.  Bessemer  rose.  "Well, 
Mr.  Rivers,"  he  announced,  "I  guess  I'll  say  good-night. 
Come,  Snooky." 

"Yes,  take  her  with  you,  Papum,"  said  Travis.  "She'll 
go  to  sleep  on  the  lounge  here  if  you  don't.  Howard, 
have  you  got  your  lessons  for  to-morrow?" 

It  appeared  that  he  had  not.  Snooky  whined  to  stay 
up  a  little  longer,  but  at  last  consented  to  go  with  her 
father.  They  all  bade  Condy  good-night  and  took 
themselves  away,  Howard  lingering  a  moment  in  the 
door  in  the  hope  of  the  nickel  he  dared  not  ask  for. 
Maggie  reappeared  to  clear  away  the  table. 

"Let's  go  into  the  parlour,"  suggested  Travis,  rising. 
"Don't  you  want  to?" 

The  parlour  was  the  front  room  overlooking  the  street, 
and  was  reached  by  the  long  hall  that  ran  the  whole 
length  of  the  flat,  passing  by  the  door  of  each  one  of  its 
eight  rooms  in  turn. 

Travis  preceded  Condy,  and  turned  up  ohe  of  the 
burners  in  a  coloured  globe  of  the  little  brass  chandelier. 

The  parlour  was  a  small  affair,  peopled  by  a  family 
of  chairs  and  sofas  robed  in  white  druggets.  A  gold- 
and-white  effect  had  been  striven  for  throughout  the 
room.  The  walls  had  been  tinted  instead  of  papered, 
and  bunches  of  hand-painted  pink  flowers  tied  up  with 


1 6  BLIX 

blue  ribbons  straggled  from  one  corner  to  the  ceiling. 
Across  one  angle  of  the  room  straddled  a  brass  easel 
upholding  a  crayon  portrait  of  Travis  at  the  age  of  nine, 
"enlarged  from  a  photograph."  A  yellow  drape  orna 
mented  one  corner  of  the  frame,  while  another  drape  of 
blue  depended  from  one  end  of  the  mantelpiece. 

The  piano,  upon  which  nobody  ever  played,  balanced 
the  easel  in  an  opposite  corner.  Over  the  mantelpiece 
hung  in  a  gilded  frame  a  steel  engraving  of  Priscilla  and 
John  Alden;  and  on  the  mantel  itself  two  bisque  figures 
of  an  Italian  fisher  boy  and  girl  kept  company  with  the 
clock,  a  huge  timepiece,  set  in  a  red  plush  palette,  that 
never  was  known  to  go.  But  at  the  right  of  the  fire 
place,  and  balancing  the  tuft  of  pampa  grass  to  the  left, 
was  an  inverted  section  of  a  sewer-pipe  painted  blue  and 
decorated  with  daisies.  Into  it  was  thrust  a  sheaf  of 
cat-tails,  gilded,  and  tied  with  a  pink  ribbon. 

Travis  dropped  upon  the  shrouded  sofa,  and  Condy 
set  himself  carefully  down  on  one  of  the  frail  chairs  with 
its  spindling  golden  legs,  and  they  began  to  talk. 

Condy  had  taken  her  to  the  theatre  the  Monday  night 
of  that  week,  as  had  been  his  custom  ever  since  he  had 
known  her  well,  and  there  was  something  left  for  them 
to  say  on  that  subject.  But  in  ten  minutes  they  had 
exhausted  it.  An  engagement  of  a  girl  known  to  both  of 
them  had  just  been  announced.  Condy  brought  that  up 
and  kept  conversation  going  for  another  twenty  min 
utes,  and  then  filled  in  what  threatened  to  be  a  gap  by 
telling  her  stories  of  the  society  reporters,  and  how  they 
got  inside  news  by  listening  to  telephone  party  wires  for 
days  at  a  time.  Travis'  condemnation  of  this  occupied 
another  five  or  ten  minutes;  and  so  what  with  this  and 
with  that  they  reached  nine  o'clock.  Then  decidedly 
the  evening  began  to  drag.  It  was  too  early  to  go. 
Condy  could  find  no  excuse  for  taking  himself  away, 


BLIX  17 

and,  though  Travis  was  good-natured  enough,  and  met 
him  more  than  half  way,  their  talk  lapsed,  and  lapsed, 
and  lapsed.  The  breaks  became  more  numerous  and 
lasted  longer.  Condy  began  to  wonder  if  he  was  boring 
her.  No  sooner  had  the  suspicion  entered  his  head  than 
it  hardened  to  a  certainty,  and  at  once  what  little  fluency 
and  freshness  he  yet  retained  forsook  him  on  the  spot. 
What  made  matters  worse  was  his  recollection  of  other 
evenings  that  of  late  had  failed  in  precisely  the  same 
manner.  Even  while  he  struggled  to  save  the  situation 
Condy  was  wondering  if  they  two  were  talked  out — if 
they  had  lost  charm  for  each  other.  Did  he  not  know 
Travis  through  and  through  by  now — her  opinions,  her 
ideas,  her  convictions?  Was  there  any  more  freshness 
in  her  for  him?  Was  their  little  flirtation  of  the  last 
eighteen  months,  charming  as  it  had  been,  about  to  end  ? 
Had  they  played  out  the  play ;  had  they  come  to  the  end 
of  each  other's  resources?  He  had  never  considered 
the  possibility  of  this  before ;  but  all  at  once  as  he  looked 
at  Travis — looked  fairly  into  her  little  brown-black  eyes 
— it  was  borne  in  upon  him  that  she  was  thinking  pre 
cisely  the  same  thing. 

Condy  Rivers  had  met  Travis  at  a  dance  a  year  and 
a  half  before  this,  and,  because  she  was  so  very  pretty, 
so  unaffected,  and  so  good-natured,  had  found  means  to 
see  her  three  or  four  times  a  week  ever  since.  They  two 
"went  out "  not  a  little  in  San  Francisco  society,  and  had 
been  in  a  measure  identified  with  what  was  known  as 
the  Younger  Set ;  though  Travis  was  too  young  to  come 
out,  and  Rivers  too  old  to  feel  very  much  at  home  with 
girls  of  twenty  and  boys  of  eighteen. 

They  had  known  each  other  in  the  conventional  way 
(as  conventionality  goes  in  San  Francisco);  during  the 
season  Rivers  took  her  to  the  theatres  Monday  nights, 
and  called  regularly  Wednesdays  and  Sundays.  Then 


1 8  *  BLIX 

they  met  at  dances,  and  managed  to  be  invited  to  the 
same  houses  for  teas  and  dinners.  They  had  flirted 
rather  desperately,  and  at  times  Condy  even  told  himself 
that  he  loved  this  girl  so  much  younger  than  he — this 
girl  with  the  smiling  eyes  and  robust  figure  and  yellow 
hair,  who  was  so  frank,  so  straightforward,  and  so  won 
derfully  pretty. 

But  evidently  they  had  come  to  the  last  move  in  the 
game ;  and  as  Condy  reflected  that  after  all  he  had  never 
known  the  real  Travis,  that  the  girl  he  told  himself  he 
knew  through  and  through  was  only  the  Travis  of  dinner 
parties  and  afternoon  functions,  he  was  suddenly  sur 
prised  to  experience  a  sudden  qualm  of  deep  and  genuine 
regret.  He  had  never  been  near  to  her,  after  all.  They 
were  as  far  apart  as  when  they  had  first  met.  And  yet 
he  knew  enough  of  her  to  know  that  she  was  "worth 
while."  He  had  had  experience — all  the  experience  he 
wanted — with  other  older  women  and  girls  of  society. 
They  were  sophisticated ;  they  were  all  a  little  tired ;  they 
had  run  the  gamut  of  amusements — in  a  word,  they  were 
jaded.  But  Travis,  this  girl  of  nineteen,  who  was  not 
yet  even  a  debutante,  had  been  fresh  and  unspoiled,  had 
been  new  and  strong  and  young. 

"Of  course  you  may  call  it  what  you  like.  He  was 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  intoxicated — yes,  drunk." 

"Hah!  who  —  what  —  wh  —  what  are  you  talking 
about?"  gasped  Condy,  sitting  bolt  upright. 

"Jack  Carter,"  answered  Travis.  "No,"  she  added,, 
shaking  her  head  at  him  helplessly,  "he  hasn't  been 
listening  to  a  word.  I'm  talking  about  Jack  Carter 
and  the  'Saturday  Evening'  last  night." 

"No,  no,  I  haven't  heard.  Forgive  me;  I  was  think 
ing — thinking  of  something  else.  Who  was  drunk?" 

Travis  paused  a  moment,  settling  her  side-combs  in 
her  hair;  then: 


BLIX  19 

"  If  you'll  try  to  listen,  I'll  tell  it  all  over  again,  because 
it's  serious  with  me,  and  I'm  going  to  take  a  very  decided 
stand  about  it.  You  know,"  she  went  on — "you  know 
what  the  'Saturday  Evening'  is.  Plenty  of  the 
girls  who  are  not  'out'  belong,  and  a  good  many  of  last 
year's  debutantes  come,  as  well  as  the  older  girls  of  three 
or  four  seasons'  standing.  You  could  call  it  represen 
tative,  couldn't  you?  Well,  they  always  serve  punch; 
and  you  know  yourself  that  you  have  seen  men  there 
who  have  taken  more  than  they  should." 

"Yes,  yes,"  admitted  Condy.  "  I  know  Carter  and  the 
two  Catlin  boys  always  do." 

"It  gets  pretty  bad,  sometimes,  doesn't  it?"  she  said. 

"  It  does,  it  does — and  it's  shameful.  But  most  of  the 
girls — most  of  them — don't  seem  to  mind." 

Miss  Bessemer  stiffened  a  bit.  "There  are  one  or  two 
girls  that  do,"  she  said  quietly.  "Frank  Catlin  had  the 
decency  to  go  home  last  night,"  she  continued;  "and  his 
brother  wasn't  any  worse  than  usual.  But  Jack  Carter 
must  have  been  drinking  before  he  came.  He  was 
very  bad  indeed — as  bad,"  she  said  between  her  teeth, 
"as  he  could  be  and  yet  walk  straight.  As  you  say, 
most  of  the  girls  don't  mind.  They  say,  'It's  only 
Johnnie  Carter;  what  can  you  expect  ? '  But  one  of  the 
girls — you  know  her,  Laurie  Flagg — cut  a  dance  with 
him  last  night  and  told  him  exactly  why.  Of  course 
Carter  was  furious.  He  was  sober  enough  to  think  he 
had  been  insulted;  and  what  do  you  suppose  he  did?" 

"What?  what?"  exclaimed  Condy,  breathless,  leaning 
toward  her. 

"Went  about  the  halls  and  dressing-rooms  circulating 
some  dirty  little  lie  about  Laurie.  Actually  trying  to — 
to" — Travis  hesitated — "to  make  a  scandal  about  her." 

Condy  bounded  in  his  seat.  "Beast,  cat,  swine!" 
he  exclaimed. 


20  BLIX 

"I  didn't  think,"  said  Travis,  "that  Carter  would  so 
much  as  dare  to  ask  me  to  dance  with  him " 

"Did  he?     Did— did " 

"Wait,"  she  interrupted.  "So  I  wasn't  at  all  pre 
pared  for  what  happened.  During  the  german,  before  I 
knew  it,  there  he  was  in  front  of  me.  It  was  a  break,  and 
he  wanted  it.  I  hadn't  time  to  think.  The  only  idea 
I  had  was  that  if  I  refused  him  he  might  tell  some  dirty 
little  lie  about  me.  I  was  all  confused — mixed  up.  I 
felt  just  as  though  it  were  a  snake  that  I  had  to  humour 
to  get  rid  of.  I  gave  him  the  break." 

Condy  sat  speechless.     Suddenly  he  arose. 

"Well,  now,  let's  see,"  he  began,  speaking  rapidly,  his 
hands  twisting  and  untwisting  till  the  knuckles  cracked. 
"Now,  let's  see.  You  leave  it  to  me.  I  know  Carter. 
He's  going  to  be  at  a  stag  dinner  where  I'm  invited 
to-morrow  night,  and  I — I " 

"No,  you  won't,  Condy,"  said  Travis  placidly. 
"You'll  pay  no  attention  to  it,  and  I'll  tell  you  why. 
Suppose  you  should  make  a  scene  with  Mr.  Carter — 
I  don't  know  how  men  settle  these  things.  Well, 
it  would  be  told  in  all  the  clubs  and  in  all  the 
newspaper  offices  that  two  men  had  quarreled  over  a 
girl;  and  my  name  is  mentioned,  discussed,  and  handed 
around  from  one  crowd  of  men  to  another,  from 
one  cluo  to  another;  and  then,  of  course,  the  papers 
take  it  up.  By  that  time  Mr.  Carter  will  have  told  his 
side  of  the  story  and  invented  another  dirty  little  lie, 
and  I'm  the  one  who  suffers  the  most  in  the  end.  And 
remember,  Condy,  that  I  haven't  any  mother  in  such 
an  affair — not  even  an  older  sister.  No,  we'll  just  let 
the  matter  drop.  It  would  be  more  dignified,  anyhow. 
Only,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  what  I'm  going  to  do." 

"What's  that?" 

"I'm  not  coming  out.     If  that's  the  sort  of  thing  one 


BLIX  21 

has  to  put  up  with  in  society  " — Travis  drew  a  little  line 
on  the  sofa  at  her  side  with  her  finger-tip — "  I  am  going 
to — stop — right — there.  It's  not" — Miss  Bessemer 
stiffened  again — "that  I'm  afraid  of  Jack  Carter  and 
his  dirty  stories;  I  simply  don't  want  to  know  the  kind 
of  people  who  have  made  Jack  Carter  possible.  The 
other  girls  don't  mind  it,  nor  many  men  besides  you, 
Condy;  and  I'm  not  going  to  be  associated  with  people 
who  take  it  as  a  joke  for  a  man  to  come  to  a  function 
drunk.  And  as  for  having  a  good  time,  I'll  find  my 
amusements  somewhere  else.  I'll  ride  a  wheel,  take  long 
walks,  study  something.  But  as  for  leading  the  life  of 
a  society  girl — no  !  And  whether  I  have  a  good  time  or 
not,  I'll  keep  my  own  self-respect.  At  least  I'll  never 
have  to  dance  with  a  drunken  man.  I  won't  have  to 
humiliate  myself  like  that  a  second  time." 

"But  I  presume  you  will  still  continue  to  go  some 
where,"  protested  Condy  Rivers. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  have  thought  it  all  over,  and  I've  talked  about  it 
with  Papum.  There's  no  half  way  about  it.  The  only 
way  to  stop  is  to  stop  short.  Just  this  afternoon  I've 
regretted  three  functions  for  next  week,  and  I  shall 
resign  from  the  'Saturday  Evening.'  Oh,  it's  not  the 
Jack  Carter  affair  alone!"  she  exclaimed;  "the  whole 
thing  tires  me.  Mind,  Condy,"  she  concluded,  "I'm  not 
going  to  break  with  it  because  I  have  any  'purpose  in 
life,'  or  that  sort  of  thing.  I  want  to  have  a  good  time, 
and  I'm  going  to  see  if  I  can't  have  it  in  my  own  way. 
If  the  kind  of  thing  that  makes  Jack  Carter  possible  is 
conventionality,  then  I'm  done  with  conventionality  for 
good.  I  am  going  to  try,  from  this  time  on,  to  be  just 
as  true  to  myself  as  I  can  be.  I  am  going  to  be  sincere, 
and  not  pretend  to  like  people  and  things  that  I  don't 
like;  and  I'm  going  to  do  the  things  that  I  like  to  do — 


22  BLIX 

just  as  long  as  they  are  the  things  a  good  girl  can  do. 
See,  Condy?" 

"  You're  fine,"  murmured  Condy,  breathless.  "You're 
fine  as  gold,  Travis,  and  I — I  love  you  all  the  better  for 
it." 

"Ah,  now!"  exclaimed  Travis,  with  a  brusque  move 
ment,  "there's  another  thing  we  must  talk  about.  No 
more  foolishness  between  us.  We've  had  a  jolly  little 
flirtation,  I  know,  and  it's  been  good  fun  while  it  lasted. 
I  know  you  like  me,  and  you  know  that  I  like  you;  but 
as  for  loving  each  other,  you  know  we  don't.  Yes,  you 
say  that  you  love  me  and  that  I'm  the  only  girl.  That's 
part  of  the  game.  I  can  play  it" — her  little  eyes  began 
to  dance — "quite  as  well  as  you.  But  it's  playing  with 
something  that's  quite  too  serious  to  be  played  with — 
after  all,  isn't  it,  now?  It's  insincere,  and,  as  I  tell  you, 
from  now  on  I'm  going  to  be  as  true  and  as  sincere  and 
as  honest  as  I  can." 

"But  I  tell  you  that  I  do  love  you,"  protested  Condy, 
trying  to  make  the  words  ring  true. 

Travis  looked  about  the  room  an  instant  as  if  in 
deliberation ;  then  abruptly :  ' '  Ah  !  what  am  I  going 
to  do  with  such  a  boy  as  you  are,  after  all — a  great  big, 
overgrown  boy?  Condy  Rivers,  look  at  me  straight  in 
the  eye.  Tell  me,  do  you  honestly  love  me  ?  You  know 
what  I  mean  when  I  say  'love.'  Do  you  love  me?" 

"No,  I  don't!"  he  exclaimed  blankly,  as  though  he 
had  just  discovered  the  fact. 

"There!"  declared  Travis — "and  I  don't  love  you." 
They  both  began  to  laugh. 

"Now,"  added  Travis,  "we  don't  need  to  have  the 
burden  and  trouble  of  keeping  up  the  pretenses  any 
more.  We  understand  each  other,  don't  we?" 

"This  is  queer  enough,"  said  Condy  drolly. 

"But  isn't  it  an  improvement?" 


BLIX  23 

Condy  scoured  his  head. 

"Tell  me  the  truth,"  she  insisted;  "you  be  sincere." 

"I  do  believe  it  is.  Why — why — Travis — by  Jingo! 
Travis,  I  think  I'm  going  to  like  you  better  than  ever 
now." 

"Never  mind.     Is  it  an  agreement?" 

"What  is?" 

"That  we  don't  pretend  to  love  each  other  any  more ? " 

"All  right — yes — you're  right;  because  the  moment  I 
began  to  love  you  I  should  like  you  so  much  less." 

She  put  out  her  hand.     "That's  an  agreement,  then." 

Condy  took  her  hand  in  his.  "Yes,  it's  an  agree 
ment."  But  when,  as  had  been  his  custom,  he  made  as 
though  to  kiss  her  hand,  Travis  drew  it  quickly  away. 

"No!  no!"  she  said  firmly,  smiling  for  all  that — "no 
more  foolishness." 

"But — but,"  he  protested,  "it's  not  so  radical  as 
that,  is  it?  You're  not  going  to  overturn  such  time- 
worn,  time-honoured  customs  as  that  ?  Why,  this  is  a 
regular  rebellion." 

"No,  sire,"  quoted  Travis,  trying  not  to  laugh,  "it's  a 
revolution." 


Ill 


ALTHOUGH  Monday  was  practically  a  holiday  for  the 
Sunday-supplement  staff  of  The  Daily  Times,  Condy 
Rivers  made  a  point  to  get  down  to  the  office  betimes 
the  next  morning.  There  were  reasons  why  a  certain 
article  descriptive  of  a  great  whaleback  steamer  taking 
on  grain  for  famine-stricken  India  should  be  written 
that  day,  and  Rivers  wanted  his  afternoon  free  in 
order  to  go  to  Laurie  Flagg's  coming-out  tea. 

But  as  he  came  into  his  room  at  The  Daily  Times 
office,  which  he  shared  with  the  exchange  and  sporting 
editors,  and  settled  himself  at  his  desk,  he  suddenly 
remembered  that,  under  the  new  order  of  things,  he 
need  not  expect  to  see  Travis  at  the  Flaggs'. 

"Well,"  he  muttered,  "maybe  it  doesn't  make  so  much 
difference,  after  all.  She  was  a  corking  fine  girl,  but — 
might  as  well  admit  it — the  play  is  played  out.  Of 
course  I  don't  love  her — any  more  than  she  loves  me. 
I'll  see  less  and  less  of  her  now.  It's  inevitable,  and 
after  awhile  we'll  hardly  even  meet.  In  a  way,  it's  a 
pity;  but  of  course  one  has  to  be  sensible  about  these 
things.  .  .  .  Well,  this  whaleback,  now." 

He  rang  up  the  Chamber  of  Commerce,  and  found 
out  that  the  City  of  Everett,  which  was  the  whaleback's 
name,  was  at  the  Mission  Street  wharf.  This  made  it 
possible  for  him  to  write  the  article  in  two  ways.  He 
either  could  fake  his  copy  from  a  clipping  on  the  subject 
which  the  exchange  editor  had  laid  on  his  desk,  or  he 
could  go  down  in  person  to  the  wharf,  interview  the 
captain,  and  inspect  the  craft  for  himself.  The  former 

24 


BLIX  25 

was  the  short  and  easy  method.  The  latter  was  more 
troublesome,  but  would  result  in  a  far  more  interesting 
article. 

Condy  debated  the  subject  a  few  minutes,  then 
decided  to  go  down  to  the  wharf.  San  Francisco's 
water-front  was  always  interesting,  and  he  might  get 
hold  of  a  photograph  of  the  whaleback.  All  at  once 
the  "idea"  of  the  article  struck  him,  the  certain  under 
lying  notion  that  would  give  importance  and  weight  to 
the  mere  details  and  descriptions.  Condy's  enthusiasm 
flared  up  in  an  instant. 

"By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed.     "By  Jove!" 

He  clapped  on  his  hat  wrong  side  foremost,  crammed 
a  sheaf  of  copy-paper  into  his  pocket,  and  was  on  the 
street  again  in  another  moment.  Then  it  occurred  to 
him  that  he  had  forgotten  to  call  at  his  club  that  morning 
for  his  mail,  as  was  his  custom,  on  the  way  to  the  office. 
He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  early  yet,  and  his  club 
was  but  two  blocks  distant.  He  decided  that  he 
would  get  his  letters  at  the  club,  and  read  them  on  the 
way  down  to  the  wharf. 

For  Condy  had  joined  a  certain  San  Francisco  club  of 
artists,  journalists,  musicians,  and  professional  men 
that  is  one  of  the  institutions  of  the  city,  and,  in  fact, 
famous  throughout  the  United  States.  He  was  one  of 
the  younger  members,  but  was  popular  and  well  liked, 
and  on  more  than  one  occasion  had  materially  contrib 
uted  to  the  fun  of  the  club's  "low  jinks." 

In  his  box  this  morning  he  found  one  letter 
that  he  told  himself  he  must  read  upon  the  instant. 
It  bore  upon  the  envelope  the  name  of  a  New 
York  publishing  house  to  whom  Condy  had  sent  a 
collection  of  his  short  stories  about  a  month  before. 
He  took  the  letter  into  the  "round  window"  of 
the  club  overlooking  the  street,  and  tore  it  open 


26  BLIX 

excitedly.  The  fact  that  he  had  received  a  letter 
from  the  firm  without  the  return  of  his  manuscript 
seemed  a  good  omen.  This  was  what  he  read: 

CONDE  RIVERS,  ESQ., 

Bohemian  Club,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

Dear  Sir:  We  return  to  you  by  this  mail  the  manu 
script  of  your  stories,  which  we  do  not  consider  as 
available  for  publication  at  the  present  moment.  We 
would  say,  however,  that  we  find  in  several  of  them 
indications  of  a  quite  unusual  order  of  merit.  The 
best-selling  book  just  now  is  the  short  novel — say  thirty 
thousand  words — of  action  and  adventure.  Judging 
from  the  stories  of  your  collection,  we  suspect  that  your 
talent  lies  in  this  direction,  and  we  would  suggest  that 
you  write  such  a  novel  and  submit  the  same  to  us. 
Very  respectfully, 

New  York.  THE  CENTENNIAL  Co. 

Condy  shoved  the  letter  into  his  pocket  and  collapsed 
limply  into  his  chair. 

" What's  the  good  of  trying  to  do  anything  anyhow !" 
he  muttered,  looking  gloomily  down  into  the  street. 
"My  level  is  just  the  hack-work  of  a  local  Sunday  supple 
ment,  and  I  am  a  fool  to  think  of  anything  else." 

His  enthusiasm  in  the  matter  of  the  City  of  Everett 
was  cold  and  dead  in  a  moment.  He  could  see  no 
possibilities  in  the  subject  whatever.  His  "idea"  of 
a  few  minutes  previous  seemed  ridiculous  and  over 
wrought.  He  would  go  back  to  the  office  and  grind  out 
his  copy  from  the  exchange  editor's  clipping. 

Just  then  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  familiar  figure  in 
trim,  well-fitting  black  halted  on  the  opposite  corner 
waiting  for  the  passage  of  a  cable  car.  It  was  Travis 
Bessemer.  No  one  but  she  could  carry  off  such 
rigourous  simplicity  in  the  matter  of  dress  so  well: 


BLIX  27 

black  skirt,  black  Russian  blouse,  tiny  black  bonnet 
and  black  veil,  white  kids  with  black  stitching. 
Simplicity  itself.  Yet  the  style  of  her,  as  Condy 
Rivers  told  himself,  flew  up  and  hit  you  in  the 
face;  and  her  figure — was  there  anything  more  per 
fect?  and  the  soft,  pretty  effect  of  her  yellow  hair 
seen  through  the  veil — could  anything  be  more 
fetching?  and  her  smart  carriage  and  the  fling  of  her 
fine  broad  shoulders,  and — no,  it  was  no  use;  Condy 
had  to  run  down  to  speak  to  her. 

"Come,  come!"  she  said  as  he  pretended  to  jostle 
against  her  on  the  curbstone  without  noticing  her; 
"you  had  best  go  to  work.  Loafing  at  ten  o'clock  on 
the  street  corners — the  idea  !" 

"It  is  not — it  cannot  be — and  yet  it  is — it  is  she"  he 
burlesqued;  "and  after  all  these  years!"  Then  in  his 
natural  voice:  "Hello,  T.  B." 

"Hello,  C.  R." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Home.  I've  just  run  down  for  half  an  hour  to  have 
the  head  of  my  banjo  tightened." 

"If  I  put  you  on  the  car,  will  you  expect  me  to  pay 
your  car-fare?" 

"Condy  Rivers,  I've  long  since  got  over  the  idea  of 
ever  expecting  you  to  have  any  change  concealed  about 
your  person." 

"Huh  !    No,  it  all  goes  for  theatre  tickets,  and  flowers, 
and  boxes  of  candy  for  a  certain  girl  I  know.     But — 
and  he  glared  at  her  significantly — "no  more  foolishness." 

She  laughed.  "What  are  you  'on'  this  morning, 
Condy?" 

Condy  told  her  as  they  started  to  walk  toward  Kearney 
Street. 

"But  why  don't  you  go  to  the  dock  and  see  the 
vessel,  if  you  can  make  a  better  article  that  way?" 


28  BLIX 

"Oh,  what's  the  good!  The  Centennial  people  have 
turned  down  my  stories." 

She  commiserated  him  for  this;  then  suddenly  ex 
claimed. 

"No,  you  must  go  down  to  the  dock  !  You  ought  to, 
Condy.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  let  me  go  down  with  you?" 

In  an  instant  Condy  leaped  to  the  notion.  "Splen 
did  !  Splendid!  No  reason  why  you  shouldn't!"  he 
exclaimed.  And  within  fifteen  minutes  the  two  were 
treading  the  wharfs  and  quays  of  the  city's  water-front. 

Ships  innumerable  nuzzled  at  the  endless  line  of  docks, 
mast  overspiring  mast,  and  bowsprit  overlapping  bow 
sprit,  till  the  eye  was  bewildered,  as  if  by  the  confusion 
of  branches  in  a  leafless  forest.  In  the  distance  the 
mass  of  rigging  resolved  itself  into  a  solid  gray  blur 
against  the  sky.  The  great  hulks,  green  and  black  and 
slate  gray,  laid  themselves  along  the  docks,  straining 
leisurely  at  their  mammoth  chains,  their  flanks  opened, 
their  cargoes,  as  it  were  their  entrails,  spewed  out  in 
a  wild  disarray  of  crate  and  bale  and  box.  Sailors  and 
stevedores  swarmed  them  like  vermin.  Trucks  rolled 
along  the  wharfs  like  peals  of  ordnance,  the  horse-hoofs 
beating  the  boards  like  heavy  drum-taps.  Chains 
clanked,  a  ship's  dog  barked  incessantly  from  a  com- 
panionway,  ropes  creaked  in  complaining  pulleys, 
blocks  rattled,  hoisting-engines  coughed  and  strangled, 
while  all  the  air  was  redolent  of  oakum,  of  pitch,  of  paint, 
of  spices,  of  ripe  fruit,  of  clean,  cool  lumber,  of  coffee, 
of  tar,  of  bilge,  and  the  brisk,  nimble  odour  of  the  sea. 

Travis  was  delighted,  her  little  brown  eyes  snapping, 
her  cheeks  flushing,  as  she  drank  in  the  scene. 

"To  think,"  she  cried,  "where  all  these  ships  have 
come  from  !  Look  at  their  names;  aren't  they  perfect  ? 
Just  the  names,  see:  the  Mary  Baker,  Hull;  and  the 
Anandale,  Liverpool;  and  the  Two  Sisters,  Calcutta;  and 


BLIX  29 

•see  that  one  they're  caulking,  the  Montevideo,  Callao; 
'and  there,  look !  look  !  the  very  one  you're  looking  for, 
the  City  of  Everett,  San  Francisco." 

The  whaleback,  an  immense  tube  of  steel  plates,  lay 
at  her  wharf,  sucking  in  entire  harvests  of  wheat 
from  the  San  Joaquin  Valley — harvests  that  were  to  feed 
strangely  clad  skeletons  on  the  southern  slopes  of  the 
Himalaya  foothills.  Travis  and  Condy  edged  their 
way  among  piles  of  wheat-bags,  dodging  drays  and 
rumbling  trucks,  and  finally  brought  up  at  the  after 
gangplank,  where  a  sailor  halted  them.  Condy  exhibited 
his  reporter's  badge. 

"I  represent  the  Times"  he  said,  with  profound 
solemnity,  "and  I  want  to  see  the  officer  in  charge." 

The  sailor  fell  back  upon  the  instant. 

"Power  of  the  press,"  whispered  Condy  to  Travis  as 
the  two  gained  the  deck. 

A  second  sailor  directed  them  to  the  mate,  whom  they 
found  in  the  chart-room,  engaged,  singularly  enough,  in 
trimming  the  leaves  of  a  scraggly  geranium. 

Condy  explained  his  mission  with  flattering  allusions 
to  the  whaleback  and  the  novelty  of  the  construction. 
The  mate — an  old  man  with  a  patriarchal  beard — 
softened  at  once,  asked  them  into  his  own  cabin  aft,  and 
even  brought  out  a  camp-stool  for  Travis,  brushing  it 
with  his  sleeve  before  setting  it  down. 

While  Condy  was  interviewing  the  old  fellow,  Travis 
was  examining,  with  the  interest  of  a  child,  the  details 
of  the  cabin:  the  rack-like  bunk,  the  wash-stand,  ingen 
iously  constructed  so  as  to  shut  into  the  bulkhead  when 
not  in  use,  the  alarm  clock  screwed  to  the  wall,  and  the 
array  of  photographs  thrust  into  the  mirror  between 
frame  and  glass.  One,  an  old  daguerreotype,  particu 
larly  caught  her  fancy.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a  very 
beautiful  girl,  wearing  the  old-fashioned  side  curls  and 


30  BLIX 

high  comb  of  a  half-century  previous.  The  old  mate 
noticed  the  attention  she  paid  to  it,  and,  as  soon  as  he 
had  done  giving  information  to  Condy,  turned  and 
nodded  to  Travis,  and  said  quietly:  "She  was  pretty, 
wasn't  she!" 

"Oh,  very!"  answered  Travis,  without  looking  away. 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  the  mate,  his  eyes  wide 
and  thoughtful,  said  with  a  long  breath: 

"And  she  was  just  about  your  age,  miss,  when  I 
saw  her;  and  you  favour  her,  too." 

Condy  and  Travis  held  their  breaths  in  attention. 
There  in  the  cabin  of  that  curious  nondescript  whaleback 
they  had  come  suddenly  to  the  edge  of  a  romance — a 
romance  that  had  been  lived  through  before  they  were 
born.  Then  Travis  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  sweetly: 
"She  died?" 

"Before  I  ever  set  eyes  on  her,  miss.  That  is,  maybe 
she  died.  I  sometimes  think — fact  is,  I  really  believe 
she's  alive  yet,  and  waiting  for  me."  He  hesitated 
awkwardly.  "I  dunno,"  he  said,  pulling  his  beard. 
"I  don't  usually  tell  that  story  to  strange  folk;  but  you 
remind  me  so  of  her  that  I  guess  I  will." 

Condy  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk,  and  the 
mate  seated  himself  on  the  plush  settle  opposite  the  door, 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  patch  of 
sunlight  upon  the  deck  outside. 

"I  began  life,"  he  said,  "as  a  deep-sea  diver — began 
pretty  young,  too.  I  first  put  on  the  armour  when  I 
was  twenty — nothing  but  a  lad;  but  I  could  take  the 
pressure  up  to  seventy  pounds  even  then.  One  of  my 
very  first  dives  was  off  Trincomalee,  on  the  coast  of 
Ceylon.  A  mail  packet  had  gone  down  in  a  squall  with 
all  on  board.  Six  of  the  bodies  had  come  up  and  had 
been  recovered,  but  the  seventh  hadn't.  It  was  the 
body  of  the  daughter  of  the  governor  of  the  island — a 


BLIX  31 

beautiful  young  girl  of  nineteen,  whom  everybody 
loved.  I  was  sent  for  to  go  down  and  bring  the  body 
up.  Well,  I  went  down.  The  packet  lay  in  a  hundred 
feet  of  water,  and  that's  a  wonder  deep  dive.  I  had 
to  go  down  twice.  The  first  time  I  couldn't  find  any 
thing,  though  I  went  all  through  the  berth-deck.  I 
came  up  to  the  wrecking-float  and  reported  that  I  had 
seen  nothing.  There  were  a  lot  of  men  there  belonging 
to  the  wrecking  gang,  and  some  correspondents  of 
London  papers.  But  they  would  have  it  that  she  was 
below,  and  had  me  go  down  again.  I  did,  and  this  time 
I  found  her." 

The  mate  paused  a  moment. 

"I'll  have  to  tell  you,"  he  went  on,  "that  when  a 
body  don't  come  to  the  surface  it  will  stand  or  sit  in  a 
perfectly  natural  position  until  a  current  or  movement 
of  the  water  around  touches  it.  When  that  happens — 
well,  you'd  say  the  body  was  alive;  and  old  divers  have 
a  superstition — no,  it  ain't  just  a  superstition;  I  believe 
it's  so — that  drowned  people  really  don't  die  till  they 
come  to  the  surface  and  the  air  touches  them.  We  say 
that  the  drowned  who  don't  come  up  still  have  some 
sort  of  life  of  their  own  way  down  there  in  all  that 
green  water  .  .  .  some  kind  of  life  .  .  .  surely 
surely.  When  I  went  down  the  second  time  I 
came  across  the  door  of  what  I  thought  at  first  was  the 
linen  closet.  But  it  turned  out  to  be  a  little  stateroom. 
I  opened  it.  There  was  the  girl.  She  was  sitting  on 
the  sofa  opposite  the  door,  with  a  little  hat  on  her 
head,  and  holding  a  satchel  in  her  lap,  just  as  if 
she  was  ready  to  go  ashore.  Her  eyes  were  wide 
open,  and  she  was  looking  right  at  me  and  smiling. 
It  didn't  seem  terrible  or  ghastly  in  the  least.  She 
seemed  very  sweet.  When  I  opened  the  door  it  set  the 
water  in  motion,  and  she  got  up  and  dropped  the 


32  BLIX 

satchel,  and  came  toward  me  smiling  and  holding  out 
her  arms. 

"I  stepped  back  quick  and  shut  the  door,  and  sat 
down  in  one  of  the  saloon  chairs  to  fetch  my  breath, 
for  it  had  given  me  a  start.  The  next  thing  to  do  was 
to  send  her  up.  But  I  began  to  think.  She  seemed 
so  pretty  as  she  was.  What  was  the  use  of  bringing 
her  up — up  there  on  the  wrecking-float  with  that  crowd 
of  men — up  where  the  air  would  get  at  her,  and  where 
they  would  put  her  in  the  ground  along  o'  the  worms  ? 
If  I  left  her  there  she'd  always  be  sweet  and  pretty — 
always  be  nineteen;  and  I  remembered  what  old  divers 
said  about  drowned  people  living  just  so  long  as  they 
stayed  below.  You  see,  I  was  only  a  lad  then,  and 
things  like  that  impress  you  when  you're  young. 
Well,  I  signaled  to  be  hauled  up.  They  asked 
me  on  the  float  if  I'd  seen  anything,  and  I  said 
no.  That  was  all  there  was  to  the  affair.  They 
never  raised  the  ship,  and  in  a  little  while  it  was  all 
forgotten. 

"But  I  never  forgot  it,  and  I  always  remembered  her, 
way  down  there  in  all  that  still  green  water,  waiting 
there  in  that  little  stateroom  for  me  to  come  back  and 
open  the  door.  And  I've  growed  to  be  an  old  man 
remembering  her;  but  she's  always  stayed  just  as  she 
was  the  first  day  I  saw  her,  when  she  came  toward  me 
smiling  and  holding  out  her  arms.  She's  always  stayed 
young  and  fresh  and  pretty.  I  never  saw  her  but  that 
once.  Only  afterward  I  got  her  picture  from  a  native 
woman  of  Trincomalee  who  was  housekeeper  at  the 
residency  where  the  governor  of  the  island  lived. 
Somehow  I  never  could  care  for  other  women  after  that, 
and  I  ain't  never  married  for  that  reason." 

"No,  no,  of  course  not !"  exclaimed  Travis,  in  a  low 
voice,  as  the  old  fellow  paused. 


BLIX  33 

"Fine,  fine;  oh,  fine  as  gold!"  murmured  Condy, 
under  his  breath. 

"Well,"  said  the  mate,  getting  up  and  rubbing  his 
knee,  "that's  the  story.  Now  you  know  all  about 
that  picture.  Will  you  have  a  glass  of  Madeira,  miss?" 

He  got  out  a  bottle  of  wine  bearing  the  genuine 
Funchal  label  and  filled  three  tiny  glasses.  Travis 
pushed  up  her  veil,  and  she  and  Condy  rose. 

"This  is  to  her,"  said  Travis  gravely. 

"Thank  you,  miss,"  answered  the  mate,  and  the  three 
drank  in  silence. 

As  Travis  and  Condy  were  going  down  the  gangplank 
they  met  the  captain  of  the  whaleback  coming  up. 

"I  saw  you  in  there  talking  to  old  McPherson,"  he 
explained.  "Did  you  get  what  you  wanted  from  him?" 

"More,  more!"  exclaimed  Condy. 

"My  hand  in  the  fire,  he  told  you  that  yarn  about  the 
girl  who  was  drowned  off  Trincomalee.  Of  course,  I 
knew  it.  The  old  boy's  wits  are  turned  on  that  subject. 
He  will  have  it  that  the  body  hasn't  decomposed  in  all 
this  time.  Good  seaman  enough,  and  a  first-class 
navigator,  but  he's  soft  in  that  one  spot." 


IV 


"On,  but  the  story  of  it !"  exclaimed  Condy  as  he 
and  Travis  regained  the  wharf — "the  story  of  it !  Isn't 
it  a  ripper !  Isn't  it  a  corker !  His  leaving  her  that 
way,  and  never  caring  for  any  other  girl  afterward." 

"And  so  original!"  she  commented,  quite  as  enthusi 
astic  as  he. 

"Original?  Why,  it's  new  as  paint!  It's — it's 

Travis,  I'll  make  a  story  out  of  this  that  will  be  copied 
in  every  paper  between  the  two  oceans." 

They  were  so  interested  in  the  mate's  story  that  they 
forgot  to  take  a  car,  and  walked  up  Clay  Street  talking 
it  over,  suggesting,  rearranging,  and  embellishing;  and 
Condy  was  astonished  and  delighted  to  note  that  she 
"caught  on"  to  the  idea  as  quickly  as  he,  and  knew  the 
telling  points  and  what  details  to  leave  out. 

"And  I'll  make  a  bang-up  article  out  of  the  whale- 
back  herself,"  declared  Condy.  The  "idea"  of  the 
article  had  returned  to  him,  and  all  his  enthusiasm 
with  it. 

"And  look  here,"  he  said,  showing  her  the  letter  from 
the  Centennial  Company.  "They  turned  down  my 
book,  but  see  what  they  say." 

"Quite  an  unusual  order  of  merit!"  cried  Travis. 
"Why,  that's  fine  !  Why  didn't  you  show  this  to  me 
before  ? — and  asking  you  like  this  to  write  them  a  novel 
of  adventure!  What  more  can  you  want?  Oh!"  she 
exclaimed  impatiently,  "that's  so  like  you;  you  would 
tell  everybody  about  your  reverses,  and  carry  on  about 
them  yourself,  but  never  say  a  word  when  you  get 

34 


BLIX  35 

a  little  boom.  Have  you  an  idea  for  a  thirty-thousand- 
word  novel?  Wouldn't  that  diver's  story  do?" 

"No,  there's  not  enough  in  that  for  thirty  thousand 
words.  I  haven't  any  idea  at  all — never  wrote  a  story 
of  adventure — never  wrote  anything  longer  than  six 
thousand  words.  But  I'll  keep  my  eye  open  for  some 
thing  that  will  do.  By  the  way — by  Jove!  Travis, 
where  are  we?" 

They  looked  swiftly  around  them,  and  the  bustling, 
breezy  water-front  faded  from  their  recollections.  They 
were  in  a  world  of  narrow  streets,  of  galleries  and  over 
hanging  balconies.  Craziest  structures,  riddled  and 
honeycombed  with  stairways  and  passages,  shut  out 
the  sky,  though  here  and  there  rose  a  building  of  extra 
ordinary  richness  and  most  elaborate  ornamentation. 
Colour  was  everywhere.  A  thousand  little  notes  of 
green  and  yellow,  of  vermilion  and  sky  blue,  assaulted 
the  eye.  Here  it  was  a  doorway,  here  a  vivid  glint  of 
cloth  or  hanging,  here  a  huge  scarlet  sign  lettered  with 
gold,  and  here  a  kaleidoscopic  effect  in  the  garments  of  a 
passer-by.  Directly  opposite,  and  two  stories  above 
their  heads,  a  sort  of  huge  "loggia,"  one  blaze  of  gilding 
and  crude  vermilions,  opened  in  the  gray  cement  of  a 
crumbling  fagade,  like  a  sudden  burst  of  flame.  Gigantic 
potbellied  lanterns  of  red  and  gold  swung  from  its  ceiling, 
while  along  its  railing  stood  a  row  of  pots — brass,  ruddy 
bronze,  and  blue  porcelain — from  which  were  growing 
red,  saffron,  purple,  pink,  and  golden  tulips  without 
number.  The  air  was  vibrant  with  unfamiliar  noises. 
From  one  of  the  balconies  near  at  hand,  though  unseen, 
a  gong,  a  pipe,  and  some  kind  of  stringed  instrument 
wailed  and  thundered  in  unison.  There  was  a  vast 
shuffling  of  padded  soles  and  a  continuous  interchange 
of  singsong  monosyllables,  high-pitched  and  staccato, 
while  from  every  hand  rose  the  strange  aromas  of  the 


36  BLIX 

East — sandalwood,  punk,  incense,  oil,  and  the  smell  of 
mysterious  cookery. 

"Chinatown!"  exclaimed  Travis.  "I  hadn't  the 
faintest  idea  we  had  come  up  so  far.  Condy  Rivers, 
do  you  know  what  time  it  is!"  She  pointed  a 
white  kid  finger  through  the  doorway  of  a  drug 
store,  where,  amid  lacquer  boxes  and  bronze  urns  of 
herbs  and  dried  seeds,  a  round  Seth  Thomas  marked 
half-past  two. 

"And  your  lunch!"  cried  Condy.  "Great  heavens! 
I  never  thought." 

"It's  too  late  to  get  any  at  home.  Never  mind;  I'll 
go  somewhere  and  have  a  cup  of  tea." 

"Why  not  get  a  package  of  Chinese  tea,  now  that 
you're  down  here,  and  take  it  home  with  you !" 

"Or  drink  it  here." 

"Where?" 

"In  one  of  the  restaurants.  There  wouldn't  be  a  soul 
there  at  this  hour.  I  know  they  serve  tea  any  time. 
Condy,  let's  try  it.  Wouldn't  it  be  fun?" 

Condy  smote  his  thigh.  "Fun  !"  he  vociferated.  "It 
is — by  Jove — it  would  be  heavenly!  Wait  a  moment. 
I'll  tell  you  what  we  will  do.  Tea  won't  be  enough. 
We'll  go  down  to  Kearney  Street,  or  to  the  market, 
and  get  some  crackers  to  go  with  it." 

They  hurried  back  to  the  California  market,  a  few 
blocks  distant,  and  bought  some  crackers  and  a  wedge 
of  new  cheese.  On  the  way  back  to  Chinatown  Travis 
stopped  at  a  music  store  on  Kearney  Street  to  get  her 
banjo,  which  she  had  left  to  have  its  head  tightened; 
and  thus  burdened  they  regained  the  "town,"  Condy 
grieving  audibly  at  having  to  carry  "brown-paper 
bundles  through  the  street." 

"First  catch  your  restaurant,"  said  Travis,  as  they 
turned  into  Dupont  Street  with  its  thronging  coolies 


BLIX  37 

and  swarming,  gaily  clad  children.  But  they  had  not 
far  to  seek. 

"Here  you  are !"  suddenly  exclaimed  Condy,  halting 
in  front  of  a  wholesale  tea-house  bearing  a  sign  in  Chinese 
and  English.  "Come  on,  Travis!" 

They  ascended  two  flights  of  a  broad  brass-bound 
staircase  leading  up  from  the  ground  floor,  and  gained 
the  restaurant  on  the  top  story  of  the  building.  As 
Travis  had  foretold,  it  was  deserted.  She  clasped  her 
gloved  hands  gaily,  crying:  "Isn't  it  delightful !  We've 
the  whole  place  to  ourselves." 

The  restaurant  ran  the  whole  depth  of  the  building, 
and  was  finished  off  at  either  extremity  with  a  gilded 
balcony,  one  overlooking  Dupont  Street  and  the  other 
the  old  Plaza.  Enormous  screens  of  gilded  ebony, 
intricately  carved  and  set  with  coloured  glass  panes, 
divided  the  room  into  three,  and  one  of  these  divisions, 
in  the  rear  part,  from  which  they  could  step  out  upon  the 
balcony  that  commanded  the  view  of  the  Plaza,  they 
elected  as  their  own. 

It  was  charming.  At  their  backs  they  had  the  huge, 
fantastic  screen,  brave  and  fine  with  its  coat  of  gold. 
In  front,  through  the  glass-paved  valves  of  a  pair  of 
folding  doors,  they  could  see  the  roofs  of  the  houses 
beyond  the  Plaza,,  and  beyond  these  the  blue  of  the  bay 
with  its  anchored  ships,  and  even  beyond  this  the  faint 
purple  of  the  Oakland  shore.  On  either  side  of  these 
doors,  in  deep  alcoves,  were  divans  with  mattings  and 
head-rests  for  opium  smokers.  The  walls  were  painted 
blue  and  hung  with  vertical  Cantonese  legends  in  red 
and  silver,  while  all  around  the  sides  of  the  room  small 
ebony  tables  alternated  with  ebony  stools,  each  inlaid 
with  a  slab  of  mottled  marble.  A  chandelier,  all  a-glitter 
with  tinsel,  swung  from  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  over  a 
huge  round  table  of  mahogany. 


38  BLIX 

And  not  a  soul  was  there  to  disturb  them.  Below 
them,  out  there  around  the  old  Plaza,  the  city  drummed 
through  its  work  with  a  lazy,  soothing  rumble.  Nearer 
at  hand,  Chinatown  sent  up  the  vague  murmur  of  the 
life  of  the  Orient.  In  the  direction  of  the  Mexican 
quarter,  the  bell  of  the  cathedral  knolled  at  intervals. 
The  sky  was  without  a  cloud  and  the  afternoon  was 
warm. 

Condy  was  inarticulate  with  the  joy  of  what  he  called 
their  "discovery."  He  got  up  and  sat  down.  He  went 
out  into  the  other  room  and  came  back  again.  He 
dragged  up  a  couple  of  the  marble-seated  stools  to  the 
table.  He  took  off  his  hat,  lit  a  cigarette,  let  it  go  out, 
lit  it  again,  and  burned  his  fingers.  He  opened  and 
closed  the  folding  doors,  pushed  the  table  into  a  better 
light,  and  finally  brought  Travis  out  upon  the  balcony 
to  show  her  the  "points  of  historical  interest"  in  and 
around  the  Plaza. 

"There's  the  Stevenson  memorial  ship  in  the  centre, 
see;  and  right  there,  where  the  flagstaff  is,  General 
Baker  made  the  funeral  oration  over  the  body  of  Terry. 
Broderick  killed  him  in  a  duel — or  was  it  Terry  killed 
Broderick?  I  forget  which.  Anyhow,  right  opposite, 
where  that  pawnshop  is,  is  where  the  Overland  stages 
used  to  start  in  '49.  And  every  other  building  that 
fronts  on  the  Plaza,  even  this  one  we're  in  now,  used 
to  be  a  gambling-house  in  bonanza  times;  and  see,  over 
yonder  is  the  Morgue  and  the  City  Prison." 

They  turned  back  into  the  room,  and  a  great,  fat 
Chinaman  brought  them  tea  on  Condy's  order.  But 
besides  tea,  he  brought  dried  almonds,  pickled  water 
melon  rinds,  candied  quince,  and  "China  nuts." 

Travis  cut  the  cheese  into  cubes  with  Condy's  pen 
knife,  and  arranged  the  cubes  in  geometric  figures  upon 
the  crackers. 


BLIX  39 

"But,  Condy,"  she  complained,  "why  in  the  world 
did  you  get  so  many  crackers?  There's  hundreds  of 
them  here — enough  to  feed  a  regiment.  Why  didn't 
you  ask  me?" 

"Huh!  what?  what?  I  don't  know.  What's  the 
matter  with  the  crackers  ?  You  were  dickering  with  the 
cheese,  and  the  man  said:  'How  many  crackers?'  I 
didn't  know.  I  said:  'Oh,  give  me  a  quarter's  worth  !'  ' 

"And  we  couldn't  possibly  have  eaten  ten  cents' 

worth  !  Oh,  Condy,  you  are — you  are But  never 

mind,  here's  your  tea.  I  wonder  if  this  green,  pasty 
stuff  is  good." 

They  found  it  was,  but  so  sweet  that  it  made  their  tea 
taste  bitter.  The  watermelon  rinds  were  flat  to  their 
Western  palates,  but  the  dried  almonds  were  a  great 
success.  Then  Condy  promptly  got  the  hiccoughs  from 
drinking  his  tea  too  fast,  and  fretted  up  and  down  the 
room  like  a  chicken  with  the  pip  till  Travis  grew  faint 
and  weak  with  laughter. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  exclaimed  aggrievedly — "laugh,  that's 
right !  /  don't  laugh.  It  isn't  such  fun  when  you've 
got  'em  yourself — hulp." 

"But  sit  down,  for  goodness'  sake!  You  make  me 
so  nervous.  You  can't  walk  them  off.  Sit  down  and 
hold  your  breath  while  you  count  nine.  Condy,  I'm 
going  to  take  off  my  gloves  and  veil.  What  do  you 
think?" 

"Sure,  of  course,  and  I'll  have  a  cigarette.  Do  you 
mind  if  I  smoke?" 

"Well,  what's  that  in  your  hand  now?" 

"By  Jove,  I  have  been  smoking!  I — I  beg  your 
pardon.  I'm  a  regular  stable-boy.  I'll  throw  it  away." 

Travis  caught  his  wrist.  "What  nonsense  !  I  would 
have  told  you  before  if  I'd  minded." 

"But  it's  gone  out !"  he  exclaimed.  "I'll  have  another." 


40  BLIX 

As  he  reached  into  his  pocket  for  his  case,  his  hand 
encountered  a  paper-covered  volume,  and  he  drew  it 
out  in  some  perplexity. 

"Now,  how  in  the  wide  world  did  that  book  come  in 
my  pocket?"  he  muttered,  frowning.  "What  have  I 
been  carrying  it  around  for?  I've  forgotten.  I  declare 
I  have." 

"What  book  is  it?" 

"Hey?  book?     .     .     .     h'm,"  he  murmured,  staring. 

Travis  pounded  on  the  table.  "Wake  up,  Condy,  I'm 
talking  to  you,"  she  called. 

"It's  'Life's  Handicap,'  "  he  answered,  with  a  start; 
"but  why  and  but  why  have  I " 

"What's  it  about  ?     I  never  heard  of  it,"  she  declared. 

"You  never  heard  of  'Life's  Handicap'  ?  "  he  shouted; 
"you  never  heard — you  never — you  mean  to  say  you 
never  heard — but  here,  this  won't  do.  Sit  right  still, 
and  I'll  read  you  one  of  these  yarns  before  you're  another 
minute  older.  Any  one  of  them — open  the  book  at 
random.  Here  we  are — 'The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie 
Jukes';  and  it's  a  stem-winder,  too." 

And  then  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  there  in  that 
airy,  golden  Chinese  restaurant,  in  the  city  from  which 
he  hasted  to  flee,  Travis  Bessemer  fell  under  the  charm 
of  the  little  spectacled  colonial,  to  whose  song  we  all  must 
listen  and  to  whose  pipe  we  all  must  dance. 

There  was  one  "point"  in  the  story  of  Jukes'  strange 
ride  that  Condy  prided  himself  upon  having  discovered. 
So  far  as  he  knew,  all  critics  had  overlooked  it.  It  is. 
where  Jukes  is  describing  the  man-trap  of  the  City  of  the 
Dead  who  are  alive,  and  mentions  that  the  slope  of  the 
sandhills  was  "about  forty-five  degrees."  Jukes  was  a 
civil  engineer,  and  Condy  held  that  it  was  a  capital 
bit  of  realism  on  the  part  of  the  author  to  have  him 
speak  of  the  pitch  of  the  hills  in  just  such  technical 


BLIX  41 

terms.  At  first  he  thought  he  would  call  Travis'  atten 
tion  to  this  bit  of  cleverness ;  but  as  he  read  he  abruptly 
changed  his  mind.  He  would  see  if  she  would  find  it 
out  for  herself.  It  would  be  a  test  of  her  quickness, 
he  told  himself;  almost  an  unfair  test,  because  the  point 
was  extremely  subtle  and  could  easily  be  ignored  by 
the  most  experienced  of  fiction  readers.  He  read 
steadily  on,  working  himself  into  a  positive  excitement 
as  he  approached  the  passage.  He  came  to  it  and  read 
it  through  without  any  emphasis,  almost  slurring  over 
it  in  his  eagerness  to  be  perfectly  fair.  But  as  he  began 
to  read  the  next  paragraph,  Travis,  her  little  eyes 
sparkling  with  interest  and  attention,  exclaimed: 

"Just  as  an  engineer  would  describe  it.  Isn't  that 
good !" 

"Glory  hallelujah  !"  cried  Condy,  slamming  down  the 
book  joyfully.  "Travis,  you  are  one  in  a  thousand!" 

"What — what  is  it?"  she  inquired  blankly. 

"Never  mind,  never  mind;  you're  a  wonder,  that's 
all" — and  he  finished  the  tale  without  further  explana 
tion.  Then,  while  he  smoked  another  cigarette  and  she 
drank  another  cup  of  tea,  he  read  to  her  "The  Return  of 
Imri"  and  the  "Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney." 
He  found  her  an  easy  and  enrapt  convert  to  the  little 
Englishman's  creed,  and  for  himself  tasted  the  intense 
delight  of  revealing  to  another  an  appreciation  of  a 
literature  hitherto  ignored. 

"Isn't  he  strong!"  cried  Travis.  "Just  a  little  better 
than  Marie  Corelli  and  the  Duchess  !" 

"And  to  think  of  having  all  those  stories  to  read! 
You  haven't  read  any  of  them  yet?" 

"Not  a  one.  I've  been  reading  only  the  novels  we 
take  up  in  the  Wednesday  class." 

"Lord  !"  muttered  Condy. 

Condy's   spirits   had   been   steadily   rising   since   the 


42  BLIX 

incident  aboard  the  whaleback.  The  exhilaration  of 
the  water-front,  his  delight  over  the  story  he  was  to 
make  out  of  the  old  mate's  yarn,  Chinatown,  the  charm 
ing  unconventionality  of  their  lunch  in  the  Chinese 
restaurant,  the  sparkling  serenity  of  the  afternoon,  and 
the  joy  of  discovering  Travis'  appreciation  of  his  adored 
and  venerated  author,  had  put  him  into  a  mood  border 
ing  close  upon  hilarity. 

"The  next  event  upon  our  interesting  programme,"  he 
announced,  "will  be  a  banjosephine  obligate  in  A-sia 
minor,  by  the  justly  renowned  impresario,  Signor  Cond£ 
Tin-pani  Rivers,  specially  engaged  for  this  performance; 
with  a  pleasing  and  pan-hellenic  song-and-dance  turn  by 
Miss  Travis  Bessemer,  the  infant  phenomenon,  otherwise 
known  as  'Babby  Bessie."1 

"You're  not  going  to  play  that  banjo  here?"  said 
Travis,  as  he  stripped  away  the  canvas  covering. 

"Order  in  the  gallery!"  cried  Condy,  beginning  to 
tune  up.  Then  in  a  rapid,  professional  monotone: 
"Ladies  -  and  -  gentlemen  -with-your  -  kind-permission-I- 
will-erideavour  -  to-give-you-an  -  imitation-of-a-Carolina- 
coon-song" — and  without  more  ado,  singing  the  words 
to  a  rattling,  catchy  accompaniment,  swung  off  into — 

"  F — or  my  gal's  a  high-born  leddy, 
She's  brack,  but  not  too  shady." 

He  did  not  sing  loud,  and  the  clack  and  snarl  of  the 
banjo  carried  hardly  farther  than  the  adjoining  room; 
but  there  was  no  one  to  hear,  and,  as  he  went  along, 
even  Travis  began  to  hum  the  words.  But  at  that 
Condy  stopped  abruptly,  laid  the  instrument  across 
his  knees  with  exaggerated  solicitude,  and  said 
deliberately : 

"Travis,  you  are  a  good,  sweet  girl,  and  what  you  lack 
in  beauty  you  make  up  in  amiability,  and  I've  no  doubt 


BLIX  43 

you're  kind  to  your  aged  father;  but  you — can — not — 
sing." 

Travis  was  cross  in  a  moment,  all  the  more  so  because 
Condy  had  spoken  the  exact  truth.  It  was  quite  impos 
sible  for  her  to  carry  a  tune  half  a  dozen  bars  without 
entangling  herself  in  as  many  different  keys.  What 
voice  she  had  was  not  absolutely  bad;  but  as  she  per 
sisted  in  singing  in  spite  of  Condy's  guying,  he  put  back 
his  head  and  begun  a  mournful  and  lugubrious  howling. 

"Ho!"  she  exclaimed,  grabbing  the  banjo  from  his 
knees,  "  if  I  can't  sing,  I  can  play  better  than  some  smart 
people." 

"Yes,  by  note,"  railed  Condy,  as  Travis  executed  a 
banjo  "piece"  of  no  little  intricacy.  "That's  just  like 
a  machine — like  a  hand-piano." 

"  Order  in  the  gallery  !  "  she  retorted,  without  pausing 
in  her  playing.  She  finished  with  a  great  flourish  and 
gazed  at  him  in  triumph,  only  to  find  him  pretending  a 
profound  slumber.  "  O — o — o  ! "  she  remarked  between 
her  teeth,  "I  just  hate  you,  Condy  Rivers." 

"  There  are  others,"  he  returned  airily. 

"Talk  about  slang !" 

"Now  what  will  we  do?"  he  cried.  "Let's  do  some 
thing.  Suppose  we  break  something — just  for  fun." 

Then  suddenly  the  gaiety  went  out  of  his  face,  and  he 
started  up  and  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head  with  a  gasp 
of  dismay.  "Great  heavens!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Condy,"  cried  Travis  in  alarm,  "what  is  it?" 

"The  Tea!"  he  vociferated.  "Laurie  Flagg's  Tea. 
I  ought  to  be  there — right  this  minute." 

Travis  fetched  a  sigh  of  relief.     "Is  that  all?" 

"  All !"  he  retorted.  "  All !  Why,  it's  past  four  now 
— and  I'd  forgotten  every  last  thing."  Then  suddenly 
falling  calm  again,  and  quietly  resuming  his  seat:  "I 
don't  see  as  it  makes  any  difference.  I  won't  go,  that's 


44  BLIX 

all.  Push  those  almonds  here,  will  you,  Miss  Lady? 
But  we  aren't  doing  anything!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
brusque  return  of  exuberance.  "Let's  do  things. 
What'll  we  do?  Think  of  something.  Is  there  any 
thing  we  can  break  ? "  Then,  without  any  transition,  he 
vaulted  upon  the  table  and  begun  to  declaim,  with  tre 
mendous  gestures: 

"There  once  was  a  beast  called  an  Ounce, 
Who  went  with  a  spring  and  a  bounce. 
His  head  was  as  flat 
As  the  head  of  a  cat, 
This  quadrupetantical  Ounce, 

— tical  Ounce, 
This  quadrupetantical  Ounce. 

"  You'd  think  from  his  name  he  was  small, 
But  that  was  not  like  him  at  all. 
He  weighed,  I'll  be  bound, 
Three  or  four  hundred  pound, 
And  he  looked  most  uncommonly  tall, 

— monly  tall, 
And  he  looked  most  uncommonly  tall." 

"  Bravo  !  bravo  ! "  cried  Travis,  pounding  on  the  table. 
"Hear,  hear — none,  Brutus,  none." 

Condy  sat  down  on  the  table  and  swung  his  legs.  But 
during  the  next  few  moments,  while  they  were  eating 
the  last  of  their  cheese,  his  good  spirits  fell  rapidly  away 
from  him.  He  heaved  a  sigh,  and  thrust  both  hands 
gloomily  into  his  pockets. 

"Cheese,  Condy?"  asked  Travis. 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  dark  frown,  muttering: 
"No  cheese,  no  cheese." 

"What's  wrong,  Condy — what's  the  matter?"  asked 
Travis,  with  concern. 

For  some  time  he  would  not  tell  her,  answering  all  her 
inquiries  by  closing  his  eyes  and  putting  his  chin  in  the 
air,  nodding  his  head  in  knowing  fashion. 


BLIX  45 

"But  what  is  it?" 

"You  don't  respect  me,"  he  muttered;  and  for  a  long 
time  this  was  all  that  could  be  got  from  him.  No, 
no,  she  did  not  respect  him;  no,  she  did  not  take  him 
seriously. 

"But  of  course  I  do.  Why  don't  I?  Condy  Rivers, 
what's  got  into  you  now?" 

"No,  no;  I  know  it.  I  can  tell.  You  don't  take  me 
seriously.  You  don't  respect  me." 

"But  why?" 

"Make  a  blooming  buffoon  of  myself,"  he  mumbled 
tragically. 

In  great  distress  Travis  laboured  to  contradict  him. 
Why,  they  had  just  been  having  a  good  time,  that  was 
all.  Why,  she  had  been  just  as  silly  as  he.  Condy 
caught  at  the  word. 

"Silly!  There,  I  knew  it.  I  told  you.  I'm  silly. 
I'm  a  buffoon.  But  haven't  we  had  a  great  afternoon  ? " 
he  added,  with  a  sudden  grin. 

"I  never  remember,"  announced  Travis  emphatically, 
"  when  I've  had  a  better  time  than  I've  had  to-day;  and 
I  know  just  why  it's  been  such  a  success." 

"Why.  then?" 

"Because  we've  had  no  foolishness.  We've  just  been 
ourselves,  and  haven't  pretended  we  were  in  love  with 
each  other  when  we  are  not.  Condy,  let's  do  this  lots." 

"Do  what?" 

"Go  round  to  queer  little,  interesting  little  places. 
We've  had  a  glorious  time  to-day,  haven't  we  ? — and  we 
haven't  been  talked  out  once." 

"As  we  were  last  night,  for  instance,"  he  hazarded. 

"  I  thought  you  felt  it,  the  same  as  I  did.  It  was  a  bit 
awful,  wasn't  it?" 

"It  was." 

"From  now   on,   let's   make   a  resolution.     I   know 


46  BLIX 

you've  had  a  good  time  to-day.  Haven't  you  had  a 
better  time  than  if  you'd  gone  to  the  Tea?" 

"Well,  rather.  I  don't  know  when  I've  had  a  better, 
jollier  afternoon." 

"Well,  now,  we're  going  to  try  to  have  lots  more  good 
times,  but  just  as  chums.  We've  tried  the  other,  and  it 
failed.  Now  be  sincere;  didn't  it  fail?" 

"It  worked  out.     It  did  work  out." 

"Now  from  this  time  on,  no  more  foolishness.  We'll 
just  be  chums." 

"Chums  it  is.     No  more  foolishness." 

"The  moment  you  begin  to  pretend  you're  in  love 
with  me,  it  will  spoil  everything.  It's  funny,"  said 
Travis,  drawing  on  her  gloves.  "We're  doing  a  funny 
thing,  Condy.  With  ninety-nine  people  out  of  one 
hundred,  this  little  affair  would  have  been  all  ended  after 
our  'explanation'  of  last  night — confessing,  as  we  did, 
that  we  didn't  love  each  other.  Most  couples  would 
have  'drifted  apart';  but  here  we  are,  planning  to  be 
chums  and  have  good  times  in  our  own  original,  uncon 
ventional  way — and  we  can  do  it,  too.  There,  there, 
he's  a  thousand  miles  away.  He's  not  heard  a  single 
word  I've  said.  Condy,  are  you  listening  to  me?" 

"  Blix, "  he  murmured,  staring  at  her  vaguely.  "  Blix 
— you  look  that  way;  I  don't  know,  look  kind  of  blix. 
Don't  you  feel  sort  of  blix  ? "  he  inquired  anxiously. 

"Blix?" 

He  smote  the  table  with  his  palm.  "Capital!"  he 
cried;  "sounds  bully,  and  snappy,  and  crisp,  and  bright, 
and  sort  of  sudden.  Sounds — don't  you  know,  this 
way?" — and  he  snapped  his  fingers.  "Don't  you  see 
what  I  mean?  Blix,  that's  who  you  are.  You've 
always  been  Blix,  and  I've  just  found  it  out.  Blix, "  he 
added,  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  name.  "  Blix,  Blix. 
Yes,  yes;  that's  your  name." 


BLIX 


47 


"Blix?"  she  repeated;  "but  why  Blix?" 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  know  why  not. " 

"Well,  then,"  he  declared,  as  though  that  settled  the 
question.  They  made  ready  to  go,  as  it  was  growing  late. 

"Will  you  tie  that  for  me,  Condy?"  she  asked,  rising 
and  turning  the  back  of  her  head  toward  him,  the  ends 
of  the  veil  held  under  her  fingers.  "Not  too  tight. 
Condy,  don't  pull  it  so  tight.  There,  there,  that  will  do. 
Have  you  everything  that  belongs  to  you?  I  know 
you'll  go  away  and  leave  something  here.  There's  your 
cigarette  case,  and  your  book,  and  of  course  the  banjo.  " 

As  if  warned  by  a  mysterious  instinct,  the  fat  China 
man  made  his  appearance  in  the  outer  room.  Condy 
put  his  fingers  into  his  vest  pocket,  then  dropped  back 
upon  his  stool  with  a  suppressed  exclamation  of  horror. 

"  Condy  ! "  exclaimed  Blix  in  alarm,  "  are  you  sick  ? " — 
for  he  had  turned  a  positive  white. 

"I  haven't  a  cent  of  money,"  he  murmured  faintly. 
"I  spent  my  last  quarter  for  those  beastly  crackers. 
What's  to  be  done?  What  is  to  be  done?  I'll — I'll 
leave  him  my  watch.  Yes,  that's  the  only  thing.  " 

Blix  calmly  took  out  her  purse.  "I  expected  it," 
she  said  resignedly.  "  I  knew  this  would  happen  sooner 
or  later,  and  I  always  have  been  prepared.  How  much 
is  it,  John?"  she  asked  of  the  Chinaman. 

"  Hefadollah. " 

"I'll  never  be  able  to  look  you  in  the  face  again," 
protested  Condy.  "I'll  pay  you  back  to-night.  I  will ! 
I'll  send  it  up  by  a  messenger  boy. " 

"Then  you  would  be  a  buffoon." 

"Don't!"  he  exclaimed.  "Don't,  it  humiliates  me 
to  the  dust. " 

"Oh,  come  along  and  don't  be  so  absurd  !  It  must  be 
after  five." 


48  BLIX 

Half  way  down  the  brass-bound  stairs,  he  clapped  his 
hand  to  his  head  with  a  start. 

"And  now  what  is  it  ? "  she  inquired  meekly. 

"Forgotten,  forgotten!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  knew  I 
would  forget  something. " 

"/  knew  it,  you  mean." 

He  ran  back,  and  returned  with  the  great  bag  of 
crackers,  and  thrust  it  into  her  hands.  "Here,  here, 
take  these.  We  mustn't  leave  these,"  he  declared 
earnestly.  "It  would  be  a  shameful  waste  of  money," 
and  in  spite  of  all  her  protests,  he  insisted  upon  taking 
the  crackers  along. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Blix,  as  the  two  skirted  the  Plaza, 
going  down  to  Kearney  Street,  "I  wonder  if  I  ought  to 
ask  him  to  supper?" 

"Ask  who — me? — how  funny  to " 

' '  I  wonder  if  we  are  talked  out — if  it  would  spoil  the 
day?" 

"Anyhow,  I'm  going  to  have  supper  at  the  Club;  and 
I've  got  to  write  my  article  some  time  to-night. " 

Blix  fixed  him  with  a  swift  glance  of  genuine  concern. 
"Don't  play  to-night,  Condy,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden 
gravity. 

"  Fat  lot  /  can  play  !  What  money  have  I  got  to  play 
with?" 

"You  might  get  some  somewheres.  But,  anyhow, 
promise  me  you  won't  play. " 

"  Well,  of  course  I'll  promise.  How  can  I,  if  I  haven't 
any  money?  And  besides,  I've  got  my  whaleback  stuff 
to  write.  I'll  have  supper  at  the  club,  and  go  up  in  the 
library  and  grind  out  copy  for  awhile. " 

"Condy,"  said  Blix,  "I  think  that  diver's  story  is 
almost  too  good  for  the  Times.  Why  don't  you  write  it 
and  send  it  east  ?  Send  it  to  the  Centennial  Company, 
why  don't  you?  They've  paid  some  attention  to  you 


BLIX  49 

now,  and  it  would  keep  your  name  in  their  minds  if  you 
sent  the  story  to  them,  even  if  they  didn't  publish  it. 
Why  don't  you  think  of  that?" 

"Fine — great  idea!  I'll  do  that.  Only  I'll  have  to 
write  it  out  of  business  hours.  It  will  be  extra  work.  " 

"Never  mind,  you  do  it;  and,"  she  added,  as  he  put 
her  on  the  cable  car,  "keep  your  mind  on  that  thirty- 
thousand-word  story  of  adventure.  Good-by,  Condy. 
Haven't  we  had  the  jolliest  day  that  ever  was?" 

"Couldn't  have  been  better.     Good-by,  Blix. " 

Condy  returned  to  his  club.  It  was  about  six  o'clock. 
In  response  to  his  question,  the  hall-boy  told  him  that 
Tracy  Sargeant  had  arrived  a  few  moments  previous 
and  had  been  asking  for  him. 

The  Saturday  of  the  week  before  Condy  had  made  an 
engagement  with  young  Sargeant  to  have  supper  together 
that  night,  and  perhaps  go  to  the  theatre  afterward. 
And  now  at  the  sight  of  Sargeant  in  the  "round  window " 
of  the  main  room,  buried  in  the  file  of  the  Gil  Bias, 
Condy  was  pleased  to  note  that  neither  of  them  had 
forgotten  the  matter. 

Sargeant  greeted  him  with  extreme  cordiality  as  he 
came  up,  and  at  once  proposed  a  drink.  Sargeant  was 
a  sleek,  well-groomed,  well-looking  fellow  of  thirty,  just 
beginning  to  show  the  effects  of  a  certain  amount  of  dis 
sipation  in  the  little  puffs  under  the  eyes  and  the  faint 
blueness  of  the  temples.  The  sudden  death  of  his  father, 
for  which  event  Sargeant  was  still  mourning,  had  left 
him  in  such  a  position  that  his  monthly  income  was  about 
five  times  as  large  as  Condy's  salary.  The  two  had 
supper  together,  and  Sargeant  proposed  the  theatre. 

"No,  no;  I've  got  to  work  to-night,"  asserted  Condy. 

After  dinner,  while  they  were  smoking  their  cigars  in  a 
window  of  the  main  room,  one  of  the  hall-boys  came  up 
and  touched  Condy  on  the  arm. 


50  BLIX 

"Mr.  Eckert,  and  Mr.  Hendricks,  and  Mr.  George 
Hands,  and  several  other  of  those  gentlemen  are  up  in 
the  card-room,  and  are  asking  for  you  and  Mr.  Sargeant." 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  the  boys  were  here!  They've 
got  a  game  going,  Condy.  Let's  go  up  and  get  in. 
Shall  we?" 

Condy  remembered  that  he  had  no  money.  "I'm 
flat  broke,  Tracy, "  he  announced,  for  he  knew  Sargeant 
well  enough  to  make  the  confession  without  wincing. 
"No,  I'll  not  go  in;  but  I'll  go  up  and  watch  you  a  few 
minutes.  " 

They  ascended  to  the  card-room,  where  the  air  was 
heavy  and  acrid  with  cigar  smoke,  and  where  the  silence 
was  broken  only  by  the  click  of  poker-chips.  At  the 
end  of  twenty  minutes  Condy  was  playing,  having  bor 
rowed  enough  money  of  Sargeant  to  start  in  the  game. 

Unusually  talkative  and  restless,  he  had  suddenly 
hardened  and  stiffened  to  a  repressed,  tense  calm; 
speechless,  almost  rigid  in  his  chair.  Excitable  under 
even  ordinary  circumstances,  his  every  faculty  was  now 
keyed  to  its  highest  pitch.  The  nervous  strain  upon  him 
was  like  the  stretching  and  tightening  of  harp-strings, 
too  taut  to  quiver.  The  colour  left  his  face,  and  the 
moisture  fled  his  lips.  His  projected  article,  his  promise 
to  Blix,  all  the  jollity  of  the  afternoon,  all  thought  of 
time  or  place,  faded  away  as  the  one  indomitable,  evil 
passion  of  the  man  leaped  into  life  within  him,  and  lashed 
and  roweled  him  with  excitement.  His  world  resolved 
itself  to  a  round  green  table,  columns  of  tri-coloured 
chips,  and  five  ever-changing  cards  that  came  and  went 
and  came  again  before  his  tired  eyes  like  the  changing, 
weaving  colours  of  the  kaleidoscope.  Midnight  struck, 
then  one  o'clock,  then  two,  three,  and  four.  Still  his 
passion  rode  him  like  a  hag,  spurring  the  jaded  body, 
rousing  up  the  wearied  brain. 


BLIX  51 

Finally,  at  half-past  four,  at  a  time  when  Condy  was 
precisely  where  he  had  started,  neither  winner  nor  loser 
by  so  much  as  a  dime,  a  round  of  jack-pots  was  declared, 
and  the  game  broke  up.  Condy  walked  home  to  the 
uptown  hotel  where  he  lived  with  his  mother,  and  went 
to  bed  as  the  first  milk-wagons  began  to  make  their 
appearance  and  the  newsboys  to  cry  the  morning 
papers. 

Then,  as  his  tired  eyes  closed  at  last,  occurred  that 
strange  trick  of  picture-making  that  the  overtaxed  brain 
plays  upon  the  retina.  A  swift  series  of  pictures  of  the 
day's  doings  began  to  whirl  through  rather  than  before 
the  pupils  of  his  shut  eyes.  Condy  saw  again  a  brief 
vision  of  the  street,  and  Blix  upon  the  corner  waiting  to 
cross;  then  it  was  the  gay,  brisk  confusion  of  the  water 
front,  the  old  mate's  cabin  aboard  the  whaleback, 
Chinatown,  and  a  loop  of  vermilion  cloth  over  a  gallery 
rail,  the  golden  balcony,  the  glint  of  the  Stevenson  ship 
upon  the  green  Plaza,  Blix  playing  the  banjo,  the  delight 
ful  and  picturesque  confusion  of  the  deserted  Chinese 
restaurant;  Blix  again,  turning  her  head  for  him  to 
fasten  her  veil,  holding  the  ends  with  her  white-kid 
fingers;  Blix  once  more,  walking  at  his  side  with  her 
trim  black  skirt,  her  round  little  turban  hat,  her 
yellow  hair,  and  her  small  dark,  dancing  eyes. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  remembered  the  promise  he  had 
made  her  in  the  matter  of  playing  that  night.  He 
winced  sharply  at  this,  and  the  remembrance  of  his  fault 
harried  and  harassed  him.  In  spite  of  himself,  he  felt 
contemptible.  Yet  he  had  broken  his  promise  to  her  in 
this  very  matter  of  playing  before — before  that  day  of 
their  visit  to  the  Chinese  restaurant — and  had  felt  no 
great  qualm  of  self-reproach.  Had  their  relations 
changed?  Rather  the  reverse,  for  they  had  done  with 
"foolishness. " 


52  BLIX 

"Never  worried  me  before,"  muttered  Condy,  as  he 
punched  up  his  pillow — "never  worried  me  before. 
Why  should  it  worry  me  now — worry  me  like  the  devil ; 
— and  she  caught  on  to  that  'point'  about  the  slope  of 
forty-five  degrees." 


CONDY  began  his  week's  work  for  the  supplement 
behindhand.  Naturally  he  overslept  himself  Tuesday 
morning,  and,  not  having  any  change  in  his  pockets, 
was  obliged  to  walk  down  to  the  office.  He  arrived  late, 
to  find  the  compositors  already  fretting  for  copy.  His 
editor  promptly  asked  for  the  whaleback  stuff,  and 
Condy  was  forced  into  promising  it  within  half  an  hour. 
It  was  out  of  the  question  to  write  the  article  according 
to  his  own  idea  in  so  short  a  time;  so  Condy  faked  the 
stuff  from  the  exchange  clipping,  after  all.  His  descrip 
tion  of  the  boat  and  his  comments  upon  her  mission — 
taken  largely  at  second  hand — served  only  to  fill  spa»ce 
in  the  paper.  They  were  lacking  both  in  interest  and 
in  point.  There  were  no  illustrations.  The  article  was 
a  failure. 

But  Condy  redeemed  himself  by  a  witty  interview 
later  in  the  week  with  an  emotional  actress,  and  by  a 
solemn  article — compiled  after  an  hour's  reading  in 
Lafcadio  Hearn  and  the  encyclopedia — on  the  "Indus 
trial  Renaissance  in  Japan. " 

But  the  idea  of  the  diver's  story  came  back  to  him 
again  and  again,  and  Thursday  night  after  supper  he 
went  down  to  his  club,  and  hid  himself  at  a  corner  desk 
in  the  library,  and,  in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  wrote  out 
some  two  thousand  words  of  it.  In  order  to  get  the 
"technical  details,"  upon  which  he  set  such  store,  he 
consulted  the  encyclopedias  again,  and  "worked  in"  a 
number  of  unfamiliar  phrases  and  odd-sounding  names. 
He  was  so  proud  of  the  result  that  he  felt  he  could  not 

53 


54  BLIX 

wait  until  the  tale  was  finished  and  in  print  to  try  its 
effect.  He  wanted  appreciation  and  encouragement 
upon  the  instant.  He  thought  of  Blix. 

"She  saw  the  point  in  Morrowbie  Jukes'  description 
of  the  slope  of  the  sandhill,  "  he  told  himself;  and  the  next 
moment  had  resolved  to  go  up  and  see  her  the  next 
evening  and  read  to  her  what  he  had  written. 

This  was  on  Thursday.  All  through  that  week  Blix 
had  kept  much  to  herself,  and  for  the  first  time  in  two 
years  had  begun  to  spend  every  evening  at  home.  In 
the  morning  of  each  day  she  helped  Victorine  with  the 
upstairs  work,  making  the  beds,  putting  the  rooms  to 
rights ;  or  consulted  with  the  butcher's  and  grocer's  boys 
at  the  head  of  the  back  stairs,  or  chaffered  with  urbane 
and  smiling  Chinamen  with  their  balanced  vegetable 
baskets.  She  knew  the  house  and  its  management  at 
her  fingers'  ends,  and  supervised  everything  that  went 
forward.  Laurie  Flagg,  coming  to  call  upon  her,  on 
Wednesday  afternoon,  to  remonstrate  upon  her  sudden 
defection,  found  her  in  the  act  of  tacking  up  a  curtain 
across  the  pantry  window. 

But  Blix  had  the  afternoons  and  evenings  almost 
entirely  to  herself.  These  hours,  heretofore  taken  up 
with  functions  and  the  discharge  of  obligations,  dragged 
not  a  little  during  the  week  that  followed  upon  her 
declaration  of  independence.  Wednesday  afternoon, 
however,  was  warm  and  fine,  and  she  went  to  the  park 
with  Snooky.  Without  looking  for  it  or  even  expecting 
it,  Blix  came  across  a  little  Japanese  tea-house,  or  rather 
a  tiny  Japanese  garden,  set  with  almost  toy  Japanese 
houses  and  pavilions,  where  tea  was  served  and  thin, 
sweetish  wafers  for  five  cents.  Blix  and  Snooky  went 
in.  There  was  nobody  about  but  the  Japanese  serving 
woman.  Snooky  was  in  raptures,  and  Blix  spent  a 
delightful  half  hour  there,  drinking  Japanese  tea,  and 


BLIX 


55 


feeding  the  wafers  to  the  carp  and  gold-fish  in  the  tiny 
pond  immediately  below  where  she  sat.  A  Chinaman, 
evidently  of  the  merchant  class,  came  in,  with  a  Chinese 
woman  following.  As  he  took  his  place  and  the  Japanese 
girl  came  up  to  get  his  order,  Blix  overheard  him  say  in 
English:  "Bring  tea  for-um  leddy.  " 

"He  had  to  speak  in  English  to  her,"  she  whispered; 
"  isn't  that  splendid  !  Did  you  notice  that,  Snooky  ? " 

On  the  way  home  Blix  was  wondering  how  she  should 
pass  her  evening.  She  was  to  have  made  one  of  a 
theatre  party  where  Jack  Carter  was  to  be  present. 
Then  she  suddenly  remembered  "Morrowbie  Jukes," 
"The  Return  of  Imri,  "  and  "  Krishna  Mulvaney.  "  She 
continued  on  past  her  home,  downtown,  and  returned 
late  for  supper  with  "Plain  Tales"  and  "Many  Inven 
tions." 

Toward  half-past  eight  there  came  a  titter  of  the 
electric  bell.  At  the  moment  Blix  was  in  the  upper 
chamber  of  the  house  of  Suddhoo,  quaking  with  exquisite 
horror  at  the  Seal-cutter's  magic.  She  looked  up 
quickly  as  the  bell  rang.  It  was  not  Condy  Rivers' 
touch.  She  swiftly  reflected  that  it  was  Wednesday 
night,  and  that  she  might  probably  expect  Frank  Catlin. 
He  was  a  fair  specimen  of  the  Younger  Set,  a  sort  of 
modified  Jack  Carter,  and  called  upon  her  about  once 
a  fortnight.  No  doubt  he  would  hint  darkly  as  to  his 
riotous  living  during  the  past  few  days  and  refer  to  his 
diet  of  bromo-seltzers.  He  would  be  slangy,  familiar, 
call  her  by  her  first  name  as  many  times  as  he  dared, 
discuss  the  last  dance  of  the  Saturday  cotillion,  and  try 
to  make  her  laugh  over  Carter's  drunkenness.  Blix 
knew  the  type.  Catlin  was  hardly  out  of  college;  but 
the  older  girls,  even  the  young  women  of  twenty-five 
or  six,  encouraged  and  petted  these  youngsters,  driven 
to  the  alternative  by  the  absolute  dearth  of  older  men. 


56  BLIX 

"I'm  not  at  home,  Victorine,"  announced  Blix,  inter 
cepting  the  maid  in  the  hall.  It  chanced  that  it  was  not 
Frank  Catlin,  but  another  boy  of  precisely  the  same 
breed;  and  Blix  returned  to  Suddhoo,  Mrs.  Hawksbee, 
and  Mulvaney  with  a  little  cuddling  movement  of  satis 
faction. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  I  regret  about  this,"  she  said 
to  Condy  Rivers  on  the  Friday  night  of  that  week;  "that 
is,  that  I  never  thought  of  doing  it  before."  Then 
suddenly  she  put  up  her  hand  to  shield  her  eyes,  as 
though  from  an  intense  light,  turning  away  her  head 
abruptly. 

"I  say,  what  is  it?  What — what's  the  matter?"  he 
exclaimed. 

Blix  peeped  at  him  fearfully  from  between  her  fingers. 
"He's  got  it  on,"  she  whispered — "that  awful  crimson 
scarf." 

"Hoh !"  said  Condy,  touching  his  scarf  nervously, 
"it's — it's  very  well.  Is  it  too  loud  ?"  he  asked  uneasily. 

Blix  put  her  fingers  in  her  ears;  then: 

"Condy,  you're  a  nice,  amiable  young  man,  and, 
if  you're  not  brilliant,  you're  good  and  kind  to  your 
aged  mother;  but  your  scarfs  and  neckties  are  simply 
impossible." 

"Well,  look  at  this  room!"  he  shouted — they  were  in 
the  parlour.  "You  needn't  talk  about  bad  taste.  Those 
drapes — oh-h !  those  drapes !  !  Yellow,  s'help  me ! 
And  those  bisque  figures  that  you  get  with  every  pound 
of  tea  you  buy;  and  this,  this,  this"  he  whimpered, 
waving  his  hands  at  the  decorated  sewer-pipe  with  its 
gilded  cat-tails.  "Oh,  speak  to  me  of  this;  speak  to 
me  of  art;  speak  to  me  of  aesthetics.  Cat-tails,  gilded. 
Of  course,  why  not,  gilded!"  He  wrung  his  hands. 
'  'Somewhere  people  are  happy.  Somewhere  little 
children  are  at  play '  ' 


BLIX  57 

"Oh,  hush!"  she  interrupted.  "I  know  it's  bad; 
but  we've  always  had  it  so,  and  I  won't  have  it  abused. 
Let's  go  into  the  dining-room,  anyway.  We'll  sit  in 
there  after  this.  We've  always  been  stiff  and  con 
strained  in  here." 

They  went  out  into  the  dining-room,  and  drew  up  a 
couple  of  armchairs  into  the  bay  window,  and  sat  there 
looking  out.  Blix  had  not  yet  lit  the  gas — it  was  hardly 
dark  enough  for  that;  and  for  upward  of  ten  minutes 
they  sat  and  watched  the  evening  dropping  into  night. 

Below  them  the  hill  fell  away  so  abruptly  that  the 
roofs  of  the  nearest  houses  were  almost  at  their  feet; 
and  beyond  these  the  city  tumbled  raggedly  down  to 
meet  the  bay  in  a  confused,  vague  mass  of  roofs,  cornices, 
cupolas,  and  chimneys,  blurred  and  indistinct  in  the 
twilight,  but  here  and  there  pierced  by  a  new-lit  street 
lamp.  Then  came  the  bay.  To  the  east  they  could 
see  Goat  Island,  and  the  fleet  of  sailing-ships  anchored 
off  the  water-front ;  while  directly  in  their  line  of  vision 
the  island  of  Alcatraz,  with  its  triple  crown  of  forts, 
started  from  the  surface  of  the  water.  Beyond  was  the 
Contra  Costa  shore,  a  vast  streak  of  purple  against 
the  sky.  The  eye  followed  its  skyline  westward  till 
it  climbed,  climbed,  climbed  up  a  long  slope  that  sud 
denly  leaped  heavenward  with  the  crest  of  Tamalpais, 
purple  and  still,  looking  always  to  the  sunset  like  a 
great  watching  sphinx.  Then,  farther  on,  the  slope 
seemed  to  break  like  the  breaking  of  an  advancing 
billow,  and  go  tumbling,  crumbling  downward  to  meet 
the  Golden  Gate — the  narrow  inlet  of  green  tidewater 
with  its  flanking  Presidio.  But,  farther  than  this, 
the  eye  was  stayed.  Farther  than  this  there  was 
nothing,  nothing  but  a  vast,  illimitable  plain  of 
green — the  open  Pacific.  But  at  this  hour  the  colour 
of  the  scene  was  its  greatest  charm.  It  glowed  with 


58  BLIX 

all  the  somber  radiance  of  a  cathedral.  Everything 
was  seen  through  a  haze  of  purple — from  the  low  green 
hills  in  the  Presidio  reservation  to  the  faint  red  mass  of 
Mount  Diablo  shrugging  its  rugged  shoulder  over  the 
Contra  Costa  foothills.  As  the  evening  faded,  the 
west  burned  down  to  a  dull  red  glow  that  overlaid  the 
blue  of  the  bay  with  a  sheen  of  ruddy  gold.  The  foot 
hills  of  the  opposite  shore,  Diablo  and  at  last  even 
Tamalpais,  resolved  themselves  in  the  velvet  gray  of 
the  sky.  Outlines  were  lost.  Only  the  masses  remained 
and  these  soon  began  to  blend  into  one  another.  The 
sky,  and  land,  and  the  city's  huddled  roofs  were  one. 
Only  the  sheen  of  dull  gold  remained,  piercing  the 
single  vast  mass  of  purple  like  the  blade  of  a  golden 
sword. 

"There's  a  ship  !"  said  Blix  in  a  low  tone. 

A  four-master  was  dropping  quietly  through  the 
Golden  Gate,  swimming  on  that  sheen  of  gold,  a  mere 
shadow,  specked  with  lights,  red  and  green.  In  a  few 
moments  her  bows  were  shut  from  sight  by  the  old  fort 
at  the  Gate.  Then  her  red  light  vanished,  then  the 
mainmast.  She  was  gone.  By  midnight  she  would 
be  out  of  sight  of  land,  rolling  on  the  swell  of  the  lonely 
ocean  under  the  moon's  white  eye. 

Condy  and  Blix  sat  quiet  and  without  speech,  not 
caring  to  break  the  charm  of  the  evening.  For  quite 
five  minutes  they  sat  thus,  watching  the  stars  light 
one  by  one,  and  the  immense  gray  night  settle  and 
broaden  and  widen  from  mountain-top  to  horizon. 
They  did  not  feel  the  necessity  of  making  conversation. 
There  was  no  constraint  in  their  silence  now. 

Gently,  and  a  little  at  a  time,  Condy  turned  his  head 
and  looked  at  Blix.  There  was  just  light  enough  to 
see.  She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  her  hands 
fallen  into  her  lap,  her  head  back  and  a  little  to  one 


BLIX  59 

side.  As  usual,  she  was  in  black;  but  now  it  was  some 
sort  of  dinner-gown  that  left  her  arms  and  neck  bare. 
The  line  of  the  chin  and  the  throat  and  the  sweet  round 
curve  of  the  shoulder  had  in  it  something  indescribable 
— something  that  was  related  to  music,  and  that  eluded 
speech.  Her  hair  was  nothing  more  than  a  warm 
coloured  mist  without  form  or  outline.  The  sloe- 
brown  of  her  little  eyes  and  the  flush  of  her  cheek  were 
mere  inferences — like  the  faintest  stars  that  are  never 
visible  when  looked  at  directly;  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  there  was  disengaged  from  her  something  for  which 
there  was  no  name;  something  that  appealed  to  a  mys 
terious  sixth  sense — a  sense  that  only  stirred  at  such 
quiet  moments  as  this;  something  that  was  now  a  dim, 
sweet  radiance,  now  a  faint  aroma,  and  now  again  a 
mere  essence,  an  influence,  an  impression — nothing 
more.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  her  sweet,  clean  purity 
and  womanliness  took  a  form  of  its  own  which  his 
accustomed  senses  were  too  gross  to  perceive.  Only 
a  certain  vague  tenderness  in  him  went  out  to  meet  and 
receive  this  impalpable  presence;  a  tenderness  not  for 
her  only,  but  for  all  the  good  things  of  the  world.  Often 
he  had  experienced  the  same  feeling  when  listening  to 
music.  Her  sweetness,  her  goodness  appealed  to  what 
he  guessed  must  be  the  noblest  in  him.  And 
she  was  only  nineteen.  Suddenly  his  heart 
swelled,  the  ache  came  to  his  throat  and  the  smart  to 
his  eyes. 

"Blixy,"  he  said,  just  above  a  whisper;  "Blixy,  wish 
I  was  a  better  sort  of  chap." 

''That's  the  beginning  of  being  better,  isn't  it, 
Condy  ? "  she  answered,  turning  toward  him,  her  chin  on 
her  hand. 

"It  does  seem  a  pity,"  he  went  on,  "that  when  you 
want  to  do  the  right,  straight  thing,  and  be  clean  and 


60  BLIX 

fine,  that  you  can't  just  be  it,  and  have  it  over  with.  It's 
the  keeping  it  up  that's  the  grind." 

"But  it's  the  keeping  it  up,  Condy,  that  makes  you 
worth  being  good  when  you  finally  get  to  be  good;  don't 
you  think  ?  It's  the  keeping  it  up  that  makes  you 
strong ;  and  then  when  you  get  to  be  good  you  can  make 
your  goodness  count.  What's  a  good  man  if  he's  weak  ? 
— if  his  goodness  is  better  than  he  is  himself?  It's  the 
good  man  who  is  strong — as  strong  as  his  goodness,  and 
who  can  make  his  goodness  count — who  is  the  right  kind 
of  man.  That's  what  I  think." 

"There's  something  in  that,  there's  something  in 
that."  Then,  after  a  pause:  "I  played  Monday  night 
after  all,  Blix,  after  promising  I  wouldn't." 

For  a  time  she  did  not  answer,  and  when  she  spoke 
she  spoke  quietly:  "Well — I'm  glad  you  told  me;" 
and  after  a  little  she  added,  "Can't  you  stop,  Condy?" 

"Why,  yes — yes,  of  course — I — oh,  Blix,  sometimes 
I  don't  know !  You  can't  understand !  How  could  a 
girl  understand  the  power  of  it?  Other  things,  I  don't 
say;  but  when  it  comes  to  gambling,  there  seems  to  be 
another  me  that  does  precisely  as  he  chooses,  whether 
/  will  or  not.  But  I'm  going  to  do  my  best.  I  haven't 
played  since,  although  there  was  plenty  of  chance.  You 
see,  this  card  business  is  only  a  part  of  this  club  life,  this 
city  life — like  drinking  and — other  vices  of  men.  If  I 
didn't  have  to  lead  the  life,  or  if  I  didn't  go  with  that 
crowd — Sargeant  and  the  rest  of  those  men — it  would 
be  different;  easier,  maybe." 

"But  a  man  ought  to  be  strong  enough  to  be  himself 
and  master  of  himself  anywhere.  Condy,  is  there  any 
thing  in  the  world  better  or  finer  than  a  strong  man?" 

"Not  unless  it  is  a  good  woman,  Blix." 

"I  suppose  I  look  at  it  from  a  woman's  point  of  view; 
but  for  me,  a  strong  man — strong  in  everything — is  the 


BLIX  6 1 

grandest  thing  in  the  world.  Women  love  strong  men, 
Condy.  They  can  forgive  a  strong  man  almost  any 
thing." 

Condy  did  not  immediately  answer,  and  in  the  interval 
an  idea  occurred  to  Blix  that  at  once  hardened  into  a 
determination.  But  she  said  nothing  at  the  moment. 
The  spell  of  the  sunset  was  gone,  and  they  had  evidently 
reached  the  end  of  that  subject  of  their  talk.  Blix  rose 
to  light  the  gas.  "Will  you  promise  me  one  thing, 
Condy?"  she  said.  "Don't,  if  you  don't  want  to.  But 
will  you  promise  me  that  you  will  tell  me  whenever  you 
do  play?" 

"That  I'll  promise  you!"  exclaimed  Condy;  "and 
I'll  keep  that,  too." 

"And  now,  let's  hear  the  story — or  what  you've  done 
of  it." 

They  drew  up  to  the  dining-room  table  with  its  cover 
of  blue  denim  edged  with  white  cord,  and  Condy  unrolled 
his  manuscript  and  read  through  what  he  had  written. 
She  approved,  and,  as  he  had  foreseen,  "caught  on"  to 
every  one  of  his  points.  He  was  almost  ready  to  burst 
into  cheers  when  she  said: 

"Any  one  reading  that  would  almost  believe  you  had 
been  a  diver  yourself,  or  at  least  had  lived  with  divers. 
Those  little  details  count,  don't  they?  Condy,  I've  an 
idea.  See  what  you  think  of  it.  Instead  of  having  the 
story  end  with  his  leaving  her  down  there  and  going 
away,  do  it  this  way.  Let  him  leave  her  there,  and  then 
go  back  after  a  long  time  when  he  gets  to  be  an  old  man. 
Fix  it  up  some  way  to  make  it  natural.  Have  him  go 
down  to  see  her  and  never  come  up  again,  see?  And 
leave  the  reader  in  doubt  as  to  whether  it  was  an  acci 
dent  or  whether  he  did  it  on  purpose." 

Condy  choked  back  a  whoop  and  smote  his  knee. 
"Blix,  you're  the  eighth  wonder!  Magnificent — glo- 


62  BLIX 

rious !  Say!" — he  fixed  her  with  a  glance  of  curiosity 
— "you  ought  to  take  to  story- writing  yourself." 

"No,  no,"  she  retorted  significantly.  "I'll  just  stay 
with  my  singing  and  be  content  with  that.  But  remem 
ber  that  story  don't  go  to  the  Times  supplement.  At 
least  not  until  you  have  tried  it  east — with  the  Centen 
nial  Company,  at  any  rate." 

"Well,  I  guess  not!"  snorted  Condy.  "Why,  this  is 
going  to  be  one  of  the  best  yarns  I  ever  wrote." 

A  little  later  on  he  inquired  with  sudden  concern: 
"Have  you  got  anything  to  eat  in  the  house?" 

"I  never  saw  such  a  man!"  declared  Blix;  "you  are 
always  hungry." 

"I  love  to  eat,"  he  protested. 

"Well,  we'll  make  some  creamed  oysters;  how  would 
that  do?"  suggested  Blix. 

Condy  rolled  his  eyes.  "Oh,  speak  to  me  of 
creamed  oysters!"  Then,  with  abrupt  solemnity: 
"Blix,  I  never  in  my  life  had  as  many  oysters  as  I 
could  eat." 

She  made  the  creamed  oysters  in  the  kitchen  over 
the  gas  stove,  and  they  ate  them  there — Condy,  sitting 
on  the  wash-board  of  the  sink,  his  plate  in  his  lap. 

Condy  had  a  way  of  catching  up  in  his  hands  what 
ever  happened  to  be  nearest  to  him,  and  while  still 
continuing  to  talk,  examining  it  with  apparent  deep 
interest.  Just  now  it  happened  to  be  the  morning's 
paper  that  Victorine  had  left  on  the  table.  For  five 
minutes  Condy  had  been  picking  it  up  and  laying  it  down 
frowning  abstractedly  at  it  during  the  pauses  in  the 
conversation.  Suddenly  he  became  aware  of  what  it 
was,  and  instantly  read  aloud  the  first  item  that  caught 
his  glance: 

"'Personal. — Young  woman,  thirty-one,  good  house 
keeper,  desires  acquaintance  respectable  middle-aged 


BLIX  63 

gentleman.  Object,  matrimony.  Address  K.  D.  B., 
this  office.' 

"Hum!"  he  commented,  "nothing  equivocal  about 
K.  D.  B.;  has  the  heroism  to  call  herself  young  at 
thirty-one.  I'll  bet  she  is  a  good  housekeeper.  Right 
to  the  point.  If  K.  D.  B.  don't  see  what  she  wants,  she 
asks  for  it." 

"I  wonder,"  mused  Blix,  "what  kind  of  people  they 
are  who  put  personals  in  the  papers.  K.  D.  B.,  for 
instance;  who  is  she,  and  what  is  she  like?" 

"They're  not  tough,"  Condy  assured  her.  "I  see 
'em  often  down  at  the  Times  office.  They  are  usually 
a  plain,  matter-of-fact  sort,  quite  conscientious,  you 
know;  generally  middle-aged — or  thirty-one;  outgrown 
their  youthful  follies  and  illusions,  and  want  to  settle 
down." 

"Read  some  more,"  urged  Blix.     Condy  went  on: 

"'Bachelor,  good  habits,  twenty-five,  affectionate 
disposition,  accomplishments,  money,  desires  acquaint 
ance  pretty,  refined  girl.  Object,  matrimony.  McB., 
this  office. ": 

"No,  I  don't  like  McB.,"  said  Blix.  "He's  too- 
ornamental,  somehow." 

"He  wouldn't  do  for  K.  D.  B.,  would  he?" 

"Oh,  my,  no!     He'd  make  her  very  unhappy." 

"  'Widower,  two  children,  home-loving  disposition, 
desires  introduction  to  good,  honest  woman  to  make 
home  for  his  children.  Matrimony,  if  suitable.  B.  P.  T., 
Box  A,  this  office."1 

"He's  not  for  K.  D.  B.,  that's  flat,"  declared  Blix; 
"the  idea,  'matrimony  if  suitable' — patronizing  enough  ! 
I  know  just  what  kind  of  an  old  man  B.  P.  T.  is.  I  know 
he  would  want  K.  D.  B.  to  warm  his  slippers,  and  would 
be  fretful  and  grumpy.  B.  P.  T.,  just  an  abbreviation 
for  bumptious.  No,  he  can't  have  her." 


64  BLIX 

Condy  read  the  next  two  or  three  to  himself,  despite 
her  protests. 

"Condy,  don't  be  mean  !     Read  them  to " 

"  Ah  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  here's  one  for  K.  D.  B.  Behold 
the  bridegroom  cometh  !  Listen. 

'"Bachelor,  thirty-nine,  sober  and  industrious,  retired 
sea  captain,  desires  acquaintance  respectable  young 
woman,  good  housekeeper  and  manager.  Object, 
matrimony.  Address  Captain  Jack,  office  this 
paper.' ' 

"  I  know  he's  got  a  wooden  leg ! "  cried  Blix.  "  Can't 
you  just  see  it  sticking  out  between  the  lines  ?  And  he 
lives  all  alone  somewhere  down  near  the  bay  with  a 
parrot ' ' 

"And  makes  a  glass  of  grog  every  night." 

"And  smokes  a  long  clay  pipe. " 

"But  he  chews  tobacco." 

"Yes;  isn't  it  a  pity  he  will  chew  that  nasty,  smelly 
tobacco  ?  But  K.  D.  B.  will  break  him  of  that.  " 

"Oh,  is  he  for  K.  D.  B.?" 

"Sent  by  Providence!"  declared  Blix.  "They  were 
born  for  each  other.  Just  see,  K.  D.  is  a  good  house 
keeper,  and  wants  a  respectable  middle-aged  gentleman. 
Captain  Jack  is  a  respectable  middle-aged  gentleman, 
and  wants  a  good  housekeeper.  Oh,  and  besides,  I  can 
read  between  the  lines  !  I  just  feel  they  would  be  con 
genial.  If  they  know  what's  best  for  themselves,  they 
would  write  to  each  other  right  away.  " 

"But  wouldn't  you  love  to  be  there  and  see  them 
meet!"  exclaimed  Condy. 

"Can't  we  fix  it  up  someway,"  said  Blix,  "to  bring 
these  two  together — to  help  them  out  in  some  way?" 

Condy  smote  the  table,  and  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Write  to  'em!"  he  shouted.  "Write  to  K.  D.  B. 
and  sign  it  Captain  Jack,  and  write  to  Captain  Jack " 


BLIX  65 

''And  sign  it  K.  D.  B.,"  she  interrupted,  catching  the 
idea. 

"And  have  him  tell  her,  and  her  tell  him,"  he  added, 
"to  meet  at  some  place;  and  then  we  can  go  to  that  place 
and  hide,  and  watch. '' 

"But  how  will  we  know  them?  How  would  they 
know  each  other?  They've  never  met.  " 

"We'll  tell  them  both  to  wear  a  kind  of  flower.  Then 
we  can  know  them,  and  they  can  know  each  other.  Of 
course  as  soon  as  they  began  to  talk  they  would  find  out 
they  hadn't  written. " 

"But  they  wouldn't  care." 

1 '  No — they  want  to  meet  each  other.  They  would  be 
thankful  to  us  for  bringing  them  together. ' ' 

"Won't  it  be  the  greatest  fun?" 

"Fun!  Why,  it  will  be  a  regular  drama.  Only  we 
are  running  the  show,  and  everything  is  real.  Let's  get 
at  it!" 

Blix  ran  into  her  room  and  returned  with  writing 
material.  Condy  looked  at  the  note-paper  critically. 
"This  kind's  too  swell.  K.  D.  B.  wouldn't  use  Irish 
linen — never !  Here,  this  is  better,  glazed,  with  blue 
lines,  and  a  flying  bird  stamped  in  the  corner.  Now  I'll 
write  for  the  Captain,  and  you  write  for  K.  D.  B. " 

"  But  where  will  we  have  them  meet  ? " 

This  was  a  point.  They  considered  the  Chinese 
restaurant,  the  Plaza,  Lotta's  fountain,  the  Mechanics' 
Library,  and  even  the  cathedral  over  in  the  Mexican 
quarter,  but  arrived  at  no  decision. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  Luna's  restaurant?"  said 
Condy.  "By  Jove,  it's  just  the  place  !  It's  the  restau 
rant  where  you  get  Mexican  dinners;  right  in  the  heart 
of  the  Latin  quarter;  quiet  little  old-fashioned  place 
below  the  level  of  the  street,  respectable  as  a  tomb.  I 
was  there  just  once.  We'll  have  'em  meet  there  at  seven 


66  BLIX 

in  the  evening.  No  one  is  there  at  that  hour.  The 
place  isn't  patronized  much,  and  it  shuts  up  at  eight. 
You  and  I  can  go  there  and  have  dinner  at  six,  say,  and 
watch  for  them  to  come." 

Then  they  set  to  work  at  their  letters. 

"  Now, "  said  Condy, "  we  must  have  these  sound  per 
fectly  natural,  because  if  either  of  these  people  smell  the 
smallest  kind  of  a  rat,  you  won't  catch  'em.  You  must 
write  not  as  you  would  write,  but  as  you  think  they 
would.  This  is  an  art,  a  kind  of  fiction,  don't  you  see? 
We  must  imagine  a  certain  character,  and  write  a  letter 
consistent  with  that  character.  Then  it'll  sound 
natural.  Now,  K.  D.  B.  Well,  K.  D.  B.,  she's  prim. 
Let's  have  her  prim,  and  proud  of  using  correct,  precise, 
'elegant '  language.  I  guess  she  wears  mits,  and  believes 
in  cremation.  Let's  have  her  believe  in  cremation. 
And  Captain  Jack;  oh  !  he's  got  a  terrible  voice,  like  this, 
row-row-row,  see?  and  whiskers,  very  fierce;  and  he  says, 
'Belay  there !'  and  'Avast !'  and  is  very  grandiloquent 
and  orotund  and  gallant  when  it  comes  to  women.  Oh, 
he's  the  devil  of  a  man  when  it  comes  to  women,  is 
Captain  Jack!" 

After  countless  trials  and  failures,  they  evolved  the 
two  following  missives,  which  Condy  posted  that 
night : 

CAPTAIN  JACK. 

Sir:  I  have  perused  with  entire  satisfaction  your  per 
sonal  in  The  Daily  Times.  I  should  like  to  know  more 
of  you.  I  read  between  the  lines,  and  my  perception 
ineradicably  convinces  me  that  you  are  honest  and 
respectable.  I  do  not  believe  I  should  compromise 
my  self-esteem  at  all  in  granting  you  an  interview. 
I  shall  be  at  Luna's  restaurant  at  seven  precisely, 
next  Monday  eve,  and  will  bear  a  bunch  of  white 


BLIX  67 

marguerites.     Will  you  likewise,  and  wear  a  marguerite 
in  your  lapel? 

Trusting  this  will  find  you  in  health,  I  am, 
Respectfully  yours, 

K.  D.  B. 
Miss  K.  D.  B. 

Dear  Miss:  From  the  modest  and  retiring  descrip 
tion  of  your  qualities  and  character,  I  am  led  to  believe 
that  I  will  find  in  you  an  agreeable  life  companion.  Will 
you  not  accord  me  the  great  favour  of  a  personal  inter 
view?  I  shall  esteem  it  a  high  honour.  I  will  be  at 
Luna's  Mexican  restaurant  at  seven  of  the  clock  p.  M.  on 
Monday  evening  next.  May  I  express  the  fervent  hope 
that  you  also  will  be  there  ?  I  name  the  locality  because 
it  is  quiet  and  respectable.  I  shall  wear  a  white  margue 
rite  in  my  buttonhole.  Will  you  also  carry  a  bunch  of 
the  same  flower  ? 

Yours  to  command, 

CAPTAIN   JACK. 

So  great  was  her  interest  in  the  affair  that  Blix  even 
went  out  with  Condy  while  he  mailed  the  letters  in  the 
nearest  box,  for  he  was  quite  capable  of  forgetting  the 
whole  matter  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  the  house. 

"Now  let  it  work!"  she  exclaimed  as  the  iron  flap 
clanked  down  upon  the  disappearing  envelopes.  But 
Condy  was  suddenly  smitten  with  nameless  misgiving. 
"Now  we've  done  it!  Now  we've  done  it!"  he  cried 
aghast.  "  I  wish  we  hadn't.  We're  in  a  fine  fix  now.  " 

Still  uneasy,  he  saw  Blix  back  to  the  flat,  and  bade 
her  good-by  at  the  door. 

But  before  she  went  to  bed  that  night,  Blix  sought 
out  her  father,  who  was  still  sitting  up  tinkering  with 
the  cuckoo  clock,  which  he  had  taken  all  to  pieces  under 
the  pretext  that  it  was  out  of  order  and  went  too  fast. 


68  BLIX 

"Papum,"  said  Blix,  sitting  down  on  the  rug  before 
him,  "did  you  ever — when  you  were  a  pioneer,  when 
you  first  came  out  here  in  the  fifties — did  you  ever  play 
poker? " 

"I — oh,  well!  it  was  the  only  amusement  the  miners 
had  for  a  long  time." 

"I  want  you  to  teach  me." 

The  old  man  let  the  clock  fall  into  his  lap  and  stared. 
But  Blix  explained  her  reasons. 


VI 


THE  next  day  was  Saturday,  and  Blix  had  planned 
a  walk  out  to  the  Presidio.  But  at  breakfast,  while  she 
was  debating  whether  she  should  take  with  her  Howard 
and  Snooky,  or  "Many  Inventions,"  she  received  a  note 
from  Condy,  sent  by  special  messenger. 

"All  our  fun  is  spoiled,"  he  wrote.  "I've  got  ptomaine 
poisoning  from  eating  the  creamed  oysters  last  night, 
and  am  in  for  a  solid  fortnight  spent  in  bed.  Have 
passed  a  horrible  night.  Can't  you  look  in  at  the  hotel 
this  afternoon  ?  My  mother  will  be  here  at  the  time." 

"Ptomaine  poisoning!"  The  name  had  an  ugly 
sound,  and  Condy's  use  of  the  term  inferred  the  doctor's 
visit.  Blix  decided  that  she  would  put  off  her  walk 
until  the  afternoon,  and  call  on  Mrs.  Rivers  at  once, 
and  ask  how  Condy  did. 

She  got  away  from  the  flat  about  ten  o'clock,  but  on 
the  steps  outside  met  Condy  dressed  as  if  for  bicycling, 
and  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"I've  got  eleven  dollars  !"  he  announced  cheerily. 

"But  I  thought  it  was  ptomaine  poisoning !"  she  cried 
with  a  sudden  vexation. 

'Pshaw!  that's  what  the  doctor  says.  He's  a  flap 
doodle;  nothing  but  a  kind  of  a  sort  of  a  pain.  It's 
all  gone  now.  I'm  as  fit  as  a  fiddle — and  I've  got  eleven 
dollars.  Let's  go  somewhere  and  do  something." 

"But  your  work?" 

"They  don't  expect  me.     When  I  thought  I  was  going 


70  BLIX 

to  be  sick,  I  telephoned  the  office,  and  they  said  all 
right,  that  they  didn't  need  me.  Now  I've  got  eleven 
dollars,  and  there  are  three  holidays  of  perfect  weather 
before  us:  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  Monday.  What  will 
we  do?  What  must  we  do  to  be  saved?  Our  "  Matri 
monial  Objects"  don't  materialize  till  Monday  night. 
In  the  meanwhile,  what  ?  Shall  we  go  down  to  China 
town — to  the  restaurant,  or  to  the  water-front  again? 
Maybe  the  mate  on  the  whaleback  would  invite  us  to 
lunch.  Or,"  added  Condy,  his  eye  caught  by  a  fresh- 
fish  peddler  who  had  just  turned  into  the  street,  "we 
can  go  fishing." 

"For  oysters,  perhaps." 

But  the  idea  had  caught  Condy 's  fancy. 

"Blix  !"  he  exclaimed,  "let's  go  fishing." 

"Where?" 

"I  don't  know.  Where  do  people  fish  around  here? 
Where  there's  water,  I  presume." 

"No!  Is  it  possible?"  she  asked  with  deep  concern. 
"I  thought  they  fished  in  their  back  yards,  or  in  their 
front  parlours,  perhaps." 

"Oh,  you  be  quiet !  You're  all  the  time  guying  me," 
he  answered.  "Let  me  think — let  me  think,"  he  went 
on,  frowning  heavily,  scouring  at  his  hair.  Suddenly 
he  slapped  a  thigh. 

"Come  on,"  he  cried,  "I've  an  idea  !"  He  was  already 
half-way  down  the  steps,  when  Blix  called  him  back. 

"Leave  it  all  to  me,"  he  assured  her;  "trust  me  im 
plicitly.  Don't  you  want  to  go?"  he  demanded  with 
abrupt  disappointment. 

"Want  to  !"  she  exclaimed.  "Why,  it  would  be  the 
very  best  kind  of  fun,  but — 

"Well,  then,  come  along." 

They  took  a  downtown  car. 

"I've  got  a  couple  of  split  bamboo  rods,"  he  explained 


BLIX  71 

as  the  car  slid  down  the  terrific  grade  of  the  Washington 
Street  hill.  "I  haven't  used  'em  in  years — not  since 
we  lived  east;  but  they're  hand-made,  and  are  tip-top. 
I  haven't  any  other  kind  of  tackle;  but  it's  just  as  well, 
because  the  tackle  will  all  depend  upon  where  we  are 
going  to  fish." 

"Where's  that?" 

"Don't  know  yet;   am  going  down  now  to  find  out." 

He  took  her  down  to  the  principal  dealer  in  sporting 
goods  on  Market  Street.  It  was  a  delicious  world, 
whose  atmosphere  and  charm  were  not  to  be  resisted. 
There  were  shotguns  in  rows,  their  gray  barrels  looking 
like  so  many  organ-pipes;  sheaves  of  fishing-rods,  from 
the  four-ounce  wisp  of  the  brook-trout  up  to  the  rigid 
eighteen-ounce  lance  of  the  king-salmon  and  sea-bass; 
show-cases  of  wicked  revolvers,  swelling  by  calibers  into 
the  thirty-eight  and  forty-four  man-killers  of  the  plains 
men  and  Arizona  cavalry;  hunting-knives  and  dirks, 
and  the  slender  steel  whips  of  the  fencers;  files  of  Win 
chesters,  sleeping  quietly  in  their  racks,  waiting  patiently 
for  the  signal  to  speak  the  one  grim  word  they  knew; 
swarms  of  artificial  flies  of  every  conceivable  shade, 
brown,  gray,  black,  gray-brown,  gray-black,  with  here 
and  there  a  brisk  vermilion  note ;  coils  of  line,  from  the 
thickness  of  a  pencil,  spun  to  hold  the  sullen  plunges  of  a 
jew-fish  off  the  Catalina  Islands,  down  to  the  sea-green 
gossamers  that  a  vigourous  fingerling  might  snap; 
hooks,  snells,  guts,  leaders,  gaffs,  cartridges,  shells,  and 
all  the  entrancing  munitions  of  the  sportsman,  that 
savoured  of  lonely  canons,  deerlicks,  mountain  streams, 
quail  uplands,  and  the  still  reaches  of  inlet  and  marsh 
grounds,  gray  and  cool  in  the  early  autumn  dawn. 

Condy  and  Blix  got  the  attention  of  a  clerk,  and 
Condy  explained. 

"I  want  to  go  fishing — we  want  to  go  fishing.     We 


72  BLIX 

want  some  place  where  we  can  go  and  come  in  the  same 
day,  and  we  want  to  catch  fair- sized  fish — no  minnows." 

The  following  half-hour  was  charming.  Never  was 
there  a  clerk  more  delightful  It  would  appear  that  his 
one  object  in  life  was  that  Condy  and  Blix  should  catch 
fish.  The  affairs  of  the  nation  stood  still  while  he 
pondered,  suggested,  advised,  and  deliberated.  He  told 
them  where  to  go,  how  to  get  there,  what  train  to  take 
coming  back,  and  who  to  ask  for  when  they  arrived. 
They  would  have  to  wait  till  Monday  before  going,  but 
could  return  long  before  the  fated  hour  of  7  p.  M. 

"Ask  for  Richardson,"  said  the  clerk;  "and  here, 
give  him  my  card.  He'll  put  you  on  to  the  good  spots: 
some  places  are  A-i  to-day,  and  to-morrow  in  the  same 
place  you  can't  kill  a  single  fish." 

Condy  nudged  Blix  as  the  Mentor  turned  away  to 
get  his  card. 

"Notice  that,"  he  whispered:  "kill  a  fish.  You  don't 
say  'catch,'  you  say  'kill' — technical  detail." 

Then  they  bought  their  tackle:  a  couple  of  cheap 
reels,  lines,  leaders,  sinkers,  a  book  of  assorted  flies  that 
the  delightful  clerk  suggested,  and  a  beautiful  little  tin 
box  painted  green,  and  stenciled  with  a  gorgeous  gold 
trout  upon  the  lid,  in  which  they  were  to  keep  the  pint 
of  salted  shrimps  to  be  used  as  bait  in  addition  to  the 
flies.  Blix  would  get  these  shrimps  at  a  little  market 
near  her  home. 

"But,"  said  the  clerk,  "you've  got  to  get  a  permit  to 
fish  in  that  lake.  Have  you  got  a  pull  with  the  Water 
Company?  Are  you  a  stockholder?" 

Condy 's  face  fell,  and  Blix  gave  a  little  gasp  of  dismay. 
They  looked  at  each  other.  Here  was  a  check,  indeed. 

"Well,"  said  the  sublime  being  in  shirt-sleeves  from 
behind  the  counter,  "see  what  you  can  do;  and  if  you 
can't  make  it,  come  back  here  and  lemmeno,  and  we'll 


BLIX  73 

fix  it  up  in  some  other  place.  But  Lake  San  Andreas 
has  been  bang-up  this  last  week — been  some  great  kills 
there;  hope  to  the  deuce  you  can  make  it." 

Everything  now  hinged  upon  this  permit.  It  was 
not  until  their  expedition  had  been  in  doubt  that  Condy 
and  Blix  realized  how  alluring  had  been  its  prospects. 

"Oh,  I  guess  you  can  get  a  permit,"  said  the  clerk 
soothingly.  "An'  if  you  make  any  good  kills,  lemmeno 
and  I'll  put  it  in  the  paper.  I'm  the  editor  of  the 
' Sport-with-Gun-and-Rod '  column  in  The  Press"  he 
added  with  a  flush  of  pride. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  Blix,  who  was 
waiting  at  home,  in  great  suspense,  for  that  very 
purpose,  received  another  telegram  from  Condy: 

"Tension  of  situation  relieved.  Unconditional  per 
mission  obtained.  Don't  forget  the  shrimps." 

It  had  been  understood  that  Condy  was  to  come  to 
the  flat  on  Sunday  afternoon  to  talk  over  final  arrange 
ments  with  Blix.  But  as  it  was,  Saturday  evening  saw 
him  again  at  the  Bessemers'. 

He  had  been  down  at  his  club  in  the  library,  writing 
the  last  paragraphs  of  his  diver's  story,  when,  just  as  he 
finished,  Sargeant  discovered  him. 

"Why,  Conny,  old  man,  all  alone  here?  Let's  go 
downstairs  and  have  a  cigar.  Hendricks  and  George 
Hands  are  coming  around  in  half  an  hour.  They  told 
me  not  to  let  you  get  away." 

Condy  stirred  nervously  in  his  chair.  He  knew  what 
that  meant.  He  had  enough  money  in  his  pockets  to 
play  that  night,  and  in  an  instant  the  enemy  was  all 
awake.  The  rowel  was  in  his  flank  again,  and  the 
scourge  at  his  back.  Sargeant  stood  there,  the  well- 
groomed  clubman  of  thirty;  a  little  cynical,  perhaps,  but 
a  really  good  fellow  for  all  that,  and  undeniably  fond  of 
Condy.  But  somewhere,  with  the  eyes  of  some  second 


74  BLIX 

self,  Condy  saw  the  girl  of  nineteen,  part  child  and  part 
woman;  saw  her  goodness,  her  fine,  sweet  feminine 
strength  as  it  were  a  dim  radiance.  "What's  a  good  man 
worth,  Condy,"  she  had  said,  "if  he's  not  a  strong  man  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  we'll  have  a  game  going  before  midnight," 
admitted  Sargeant  resignedly,  smiling  good-humouredly 
nevertheless. 

Condy  set  his  teeth.  "I'll  join  you  later.  Wait  a 
few  moments,"  he  said.  He  hurried  to  the  office  of  the 
club,  and  sent  a  despatch  to  Blix — the  third  since 
morning : 

"Can  I  come  up  right  away?  It's  urgent.  Send 
answer  by  this  messenger." 

He  got  his  answer  within  three-quarters  of  an  hour, 
and  left  the  club  as  Hendricks  and  George  Hands 
arrived  by  the  elevator  entrance. 

Sitting  in  the  bay  window  of  the  dining-room,  he  told 
Blix  why  he  had  come. 

"Oh,  you  were  right!"  she  told  him.  "Always, 
always  come,  when — when  you  feel  you  must." 

"It  gets  so  bad  sometimes,  Blix,"  he  confessed  with 
abject  self -contempt,  "that  when  I  can't  get  some  one 
to  play  against,  I'll  sit  down  and  deal  dummy  hands, 
and  bet  on  them.  Just  the  touch  of  the  cards — just 
the  feel  of  the  chips.  Faugh!  it's  shameful." 

The  day  following,  Sunday,  Condy  came  to  tea  as 
usual;  and  after  the  meal,  as  soon  as  the  family  and 
Victorine  had  left  the  pair  alone  in  the  dining-room,  they 
set  about  preparing  for  their  morrow's  excursion.  Blix 
put  up  their  lunch — sandwiches  of  what  Condy  called 
"devilish"  ham,  hard-boiled  eggs,  stuffed  olives,  and  a 
bottle  of  claret. 

Condy  took  off  his  coat  and  made  great  show  of 
stringing  the  tackle;  winding  the  lines  from  the  spools 
on  to  the  reels,  and  attaching  the  sinkers  and  flies  to  the 


BLIX 


75 


leaders,  smoking  the  while,  and  scowling  fiercely.  He 
got  the  lines  fearfully  and  wonderfully  snarled,  he  caught 
the  hooks  in  the  tablecloth,  he  lost  the  almost  invisible 
gut  leaders  on  the  floor,  and  looped  the  sinkers  on  the 
lines  when  they  should  have  gone  on  the  leaders.  In 
the  end  Blix  had  to  help  him  out,  disentangling  the  lines 
foot  by  foot  with  a  patience  that  seemed  to  Condy  little 
short  of  superhuman. 

At  nine  o'clock  she  said  decisively: 

"Do  you  know  what  time  we  must  get  up  in  the 
morning  if  we  are  to  have  breakfast  and  get  the  seven- 
forty  train  ?  Quarter  of  six  by  the  latest,  and  you  must 
get  up  earlier  than  that,  because  you're  at  the  hotel  and 
have  farther  to  go.  Come  here  for  breakfast,  and — 
listen — be  here  by  half-past  six — are  you  listening, 
Condy? — -and  we'll  go  down  to  the  depot  from  here. 
Don't  forget  to  bring  the  rods." 

"I'll  wear  my  bicycle  suit,"  he  said,  "and  one  of  those 
golf  scarfs  that  wrap  around  your  neck." 

"No,"  she  declared;  "I  won't  have  it.  Wear  the 
oldest  clothes  you've  got,  but  look  fairly  respectable, 
because  we're  to  go  to  Luna's  when  we  get  back,  remem 
ber.  And  now  go  home ;  you  need  all  the  sleep  you  can 
get  up  to  six  o'clock." 

Instead  of  being  late,  as  Blix  had  feared,  Condy  was 
absurdly  ahead  of  time  the  next  morning.  For  a 
wonder,  he  had  not  forgotten  the  rods;  but  he  was  one 
tremour  of  nervousness.  He  would  eat  no  breakfast. 

"We're  going  to  miss  the  train,"  he  would  announce 
from  time  to  time;  "I  just  know  it.  Blix,  look  what 
time  it  is.  We  ought  to  be  on  the  way  to  the  depot  now. 
Come  on;  you  don't  want  any  more  coffee.  Have  you 
got  everything?  Did  you  put  the  reels  in  the  lunch- 
basket  ? — and  the  fly-book  ?  Lord,  if  we  should  forget 
the  fly-book!" 


76  BLIX 

He  managed  to  get  her  to  the  depot  over  half  an  hour 
ahead  of  time.  The  train  had  not  even  backed  in,  nor 
the  ticket  office  opened. 

"I  told  you,  Condy;  I  told  you,"  complained  Blix, 
sinking  helplessly  upon  a  bench  in  the  waiting-room. 

"No — no — no,"  he  answered  vaguely,  looking  nerv 
ously  about,  his  head  in  the  air.  "We're  none  too 
soon — have  more  time  to  rest  now.  I  wonder  what 
track  the  train  leaves  from.  I  wonder  if  it  stops  at 
San  Bruno.  I  wonder  how  far  it  is  from  San  Bruno  to 
Lake  San  Andreas.  I'm  afraid  it's  going  to  rain. 
Heavens  and  earth,  Blix,  we  forgot  the  shrimps  !" 

"No,  no!  Sit  down;  I've  got  the  shrimps.  Condy, 
you  make  me  so  nervous  I  shall  scream  in  a  minute. " 

Some  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  the  train  had  set 
them  down  at  San  Bruno — nothing  more  than  a  road- 
house,  the  headquarters  for  duck-shooters  and  fisher 
men  from  the  city.  However,  Blix  and  Condy  were  the 
only  visitors.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  especially 
nice  to  them  on  that  wonderful  morning.  Even  the 
supercilious  ticket  seller  at  the  San  Francisco  depot 
had  unbent,  and  wished  them  good  luck.  The  conductor 
of  the  train  had  shown  himself  affable.  The  very 
brakeman  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  apprise  them, 
quite  five  minutes  ahead  of  time,  that  "the  next  stop 
was  their  place."  And  at  San  Bruno  the  proprietor  of 
the  roadhouse  himself  hitched  up  to  drive  them  over  to 
the  lake,  announcing  that  he  would  call  for  them  at 
"  Richardson's  "  in  time  for  the  evening  train. 

"And  he  only  asked  me  four  bits  for  both  trips," 
whispered  Condy  to  Blix,  as  they  jogged  along. 

The  country  was  beautiful.  It  was  hardly  eight 
o'clock,  and  the  morning  still  retained  much  of  the  brisk 
effervescence  of  the  early  dawn.  Great  bare,  rolling 
hills  of  gray-green,  thinly  scattered  with  live  oak,  bore 


BLIX  77 

back  from  the  road  on  either  hand.  The  sky  was  pale 
blue.  There  was  a  smell  of  cows  in  the  air,  and  twice 
they  heard  an  unseen  lark  singing.  It  was  very  still. 
The  old  buggy  and  complacent  horse  were  embalmed 
in  a  pungent  aroma  of  old  leather  and  of  stables  that 
was  entrancing;  and  a  sweet  smell  of  grass  and  sap 
came  to  them  in  occasional  long  whiffs.  There  was 
exhilaration  in  the  very  thought  of  being  alive  on  that 
odourous,  still  morning.  The  young  blood  went  spank 
ing  in  the  veins.  Blix's  cheeks  were  ruddy,  her  little 
dark-brown  eyes  fairly  coruscating  with  pleasure. 

"  Condy,  isn't  it  all  splendid  ! "  she  suddenly  burst  out. 

"I  feel  regularly  bigger  !"  he  declared  solemnly.  "I 
could  do  anything  a  morning  like  this.  " 

Then  they  came  to  the  lake,  and  to  Richardson's, 
where  the  farmer  lived  who  was  also  the  custodian  of 
the  lake.  The  complacent  horse  jogged  back,  and 
Condy  and  Blix  set  about  the  serious  business  of  the  day. 
Condy  had  no  need  to  show  Richardson  the  delightful 
sporting  clerk's  card.  The  old  Yankee — his  twang  and 
dry  humour  singularly  incongruous  on  that  royal  morn 
ing — was  solicitude  itself.  He  picked  out  the  best  boat 
on  the  beach  for  them,  loaned  them  his  own  anchor  of 
railroad  iron,  indicated  minutely  the  point  on  the 
opposite  shore  ofl  which  the  last  big  trout  had  been 
''killed, "  and  wetted  himself  to  his  ankles  as  he  pushed 
off  the  boat. 

Condy  took  the  oars.  Blix  sat  in  the  stern,  jointing 
the  rods  and  running  the  lines  through  the  guides.  She 
even  baited  the  hooks  with  the  salt  shrimp  herself; 
and  by  nine  o'clock  they  were  at  anchor  some  forty 
feet  off-shore,  and  fishing,  according  to  Richardson's 
advice,  "a  leetle  mite  off  the  edge  o'  the  weeds. " 

"If  we  don't  get  a  bite  the  whole  blessed  day,"  said 
Condy,  as  he  paid  out  his  line  to  the  ratchet  music  of  the 


78  BLIX 

reel,  "we'll  have  fun,  just  the  same.  Look  around — 
isn't  this  great?" 

They  were  absolutely  alone.  The  day  was  young  as 
yet.  The  lake,  smooth  and  still  as  gray  silk,  widened 
to  the  west  and  south  without  so  much  as  a  wrinkle 
to  roughen  the  surface.  Only  to  the  east,  where  the 
sun  looked  over  a  shoulder  of  a  higher  hill,  it  flamed 
up  into  a  blinding  diamond  iridescence.  The  surround 
ing  land  lay  between  sky  and  water,  hushed  to  a  Sunday 
stillness.  Far  off  across  the  lake  by  Richardson's  they 
heard  a  dog  bark,  and  the  sound  came  fine  and  small 
and  delicate.  At  long  intervals  the  boat  stirred  with  a 
gentle  clap-clapping  of  the  water  along  its  sides.  From 
the  nearby  shore  in  the  growth  of  manzanita  bushes 
quail  called  and  clucked  comfortably  to  each  other;  a 
bewildered  yellow  butterfly  danced  by  over  their  heads, 
and  slim  blue  dragon  flies  came  and  poised  on  their 
lines  and  fishing-rods,  bowing  their  backs. 

From  his  seat  in  the  bow,  Condy  cast  a  glance  at  Blix. 
She  was  holding  her  rod  in  both  hands,  absorbed,  watch 
ful,  very  intent.  She  was  as  trim  as  ever,  even  in  the 
old  clothes  she  had  worn  for  the  occasion.  Her  round, 
strong  neck  was,  as  usual,  swathed  high  and  tight  in 
white,  and  the  huge  dog-collar  girdled  her  waist  accord 
ing  to  her  custom.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat.  Her 
yellow  hair  rolled  back  from  her  round  forehead  and 
cool  pink  cheeks  like  a  veritable  nimbus,  and  for  the 
fiftieth  time  Condy  remarked  the  charming  contrast  of 
her  small,  deep-brown  eyes  in  the  midst  of  this  white 
satin,  yellow  hair,  white  skin,  and  exquisite  pink  cheeks. 

An  hour  passed.     Then  two. 

"No  fish,"  murmured  Condy,  drawing  in  his  line  to 
examine  the  bait.  But  as  he  was  fumbling  with  the 
flies  he  was  startled  by  a  sharp  exclamation  from  Blix. 

"  Oh-Condy-I've-got-a-bite ! " 


BLIX  79 

He  looked  up  just  in  time  to  see  the  tip  of  her  rod 
twitch,  twitch,  twitch.  Then  the  whole  rod  arched 
suddenly,  the  reel  sang,  the  line  tautened  and  cut 
diagonally  through  the  water. 

"You  got  him!  You  got  him!"  he  shouted,  palpi 
tating  with  excitement.  "And  he's  a  good  one!" 

Blix  rose,  reeling  in  as  rapidly  as  was  possible,  the 
butt  of  the  twitching,  living  rod  braced  against  her 
belt.  All  at  once  the  rod  straightened  out  again,  the 
strain  was  released,  and  the  line  began  to  slant  rapidly 
away  from  the  boat. 

"He's  off!"  she  cried. 

"Off,  nothing!  He's  going  to  jump.  Look  out  for 
him,  now  !" 

And  then  the  two,  watching  from  the  boat,  tense  and 
quivering  with  the  drama  of  the  moment,  saw  that  most 
inspiriting  of  sights — the  "break"  of  a  salmon-trout. 
Up  he  went,  from  a  brusque  explosion  of  ripples  and 
foam — up  into  the  gray  of  the  morning  from  out  the 
gray  of  the  water :  scales  all  gleaming,  hackles  all  a-bristle, 
a  sudden  flash  of  silver,  a  sweep  as  of  a  scimitar  in  gray 
smoke,  with  a  splash,  a  turmoil,  an  abrupt  burst  of 
troubled  sound  that  stabbed  through  the  silence  of 
the  morning,  and  in  a  single  instant  dissipated  all 
the  placid  calm  of  the  previous  hours. 

"Keep  the  line  taut,"  whispered  Condy,  gritting  his 
teeth.  "When  he  comes  toward  you,  reel  him  in;  an' 
if  he  pulls  too  hard,  give  him  his  head.  " 

Blix  was  breathing  fast,  her  cheeks  blazing,  her  eyes 
all  alight. 

"Oh,  "  she  gasped,  "  I'm  so  afraid  I'll  lose  him  !  Oh, 
look  at  that!"  she  cried,  as  the  trout  darted  straight 
for  tKe  bottom,  bending  the  rod  till  the  tip  was  sub 
merged.  "Condy,  I'll  lose  him — I  know  I  shall;  you, 
you  take  the  rod  ! ' ' 


8o  BLIX 

"Not  for  a  thousand  dollars!  Steady,  there;  he's 
away  again  !  Oh,  talk  about  sport !" 

Yard  by  yard  Blix  reeled  in  until  they  began  to  see 
the  silver  glint  of  the  trout's  flanks  through  the  green 
water.  She  brought  him  nearer.  Swimming  parallel 
with  the  boat,  he  was  plainly  visible  from  his  wide-open 
mouth — the  hook  and  fly  protruding  from  his  lower  jaw 
—to  the  red,  quivering  flanges  of  the  tail.  His  sides 
were  faintly  speckled,  his  belly  white  as  chalk.  He  was 
almost  as  long  as  Condy's  forearm. 

"Oh,  he's  a  beauty!  Oh,  isn't  he  a  beauty!"  mur 
mured  Condy.  "  Now,  careful;  careful;  bring  him  up  to 
the  boat  where  I  can  reach  him;  e-easy,  Blix.  If  he 
bolts  again,  let  him  run." 

Twice  the  trout  shied  from  the  boat's  shadow,  and 
twice,  as  Blix  gave  him  his  head,  the  reel  sang  and 
hummed  like  a  watchman's  rattle.  But  the  third  time 
he  came  to  the  surface  and  turned  slowly  on  his  side,  the 
white  belly  and  one  red  fin  out  of  the  water,  the  gills 
opening  and  shutting.  He  was  tired  out.  A  third  time 
Blix  drew  him  gently  to  the  boat's  side.  Condy  reached 
out  and  down  into  the  water  till  his  very  shoulder  was 
wet,  hooked  two  fingers  under  the  distended  gills,  and 
with  a  long,  easy  movement  of  the  arm  swung  him  into 
the  boat. 

Their  exultation  was  that  of  veritable  children. 
Condy  whooped  like  an  Apache,  throwing  his  hat  into 
the  air;  Blix  was  hardly  articulate,  her  hands  clasped, 
her  hair  in  disarray,  her  eyes  swimming  with  tears  of 
sheer  excitement.  They  shook  each  other's  hands; 
they  talked  wildly  at  the  same  time;  they  pounded  on 
the  boat's  thwarts  with  their  fists;  they  laughed  at  their 
own  absurdity ;  they  looked  at  the  trout  again  and  again, 
guessed  at  his  weight,  and  recalled  to  each  other  details 
of  the  struggle. 


BLIX  81 

"When  he  broke  that  time,  wasn't  it  grand?" 

"  And  when  I  first  felt  him  bite  !  It  was  so  sudden — 
why,  it  actually  frightened  me.  I  never — no,  never  in 
my  life  ! "  exclaimed  Blix,  "was  so  happy  as  I  am  at  this 
moment !  Oh,  Condy,  to  think — just  to  think  /" 

"Isn't  it  glory  hallelujah?" 

' '  Isn't  it  better  than  teas,  and  dancing,  and  functions  ? ' ' 

"Blix — how  old  are  we?" 

"  I  don't  care  how  old  we  are;  I  think  that  trout  will 
weigh  two  pounds." 

When  they  were  calm  again  they  returned  to  their 
fishing.  The  morning  passed,  and  it  was  noon  before 
they  were  aware  of  it.  By  half-past  twelve  Blix  had 
caught  three  trout,  though  the  first  was  by  far  the 
heaviest.  Condy  had  not  had  so  much  as  a  bite.  At 
one  o'clock  they  rowed  ashore  and  had  lunch  under  a 
huge  live  oak  in  a  little  amphitheatre  of  manzanita. 

Never  had  a  lunch  tasted  so  delicious.  What  if  the 
wine  was  warm  and  the  stuffed  olives  oily  ?  What  if  the 
pepper  for  the  hard-boiled  eggs  had  sifted  all  over  the 
"devilish"  ham  sandwiches?  What  if  the  eggs  them 
selves  had  not  been  sufficiently  cooked,  and  the  corkscrew 
forgotten  ?  They  could  not  be  anything  else  but  inordi 
nately  happy,  sublimely  gay.  Nothing  short  of  actual 
tragedy  could  have  marred  the  joy  of  that  day. 

But  after  they  were  done  eating,  and  Blix  had  put 
away  the  forks  and  spoons,  and  while  Condy  was 
stretched  upon  his  back  smoking  a  cigar,  she  said  to  him: 

"Now,  Condy,  what  do  you  say  to  a  little  game  of 
cards  with  me?" 

The  cigar  dropped  from  Condy 's  lips,  and  he  sat  sud 
denly  upright,  brushing  the  fallen  leaves  fiom  his  hair. 
Blix  had  taken  a  deck  of  cards  from  the  lunch-basket, 
and  four  rolls  of  chips  wrapped  in  tissue  paper.  He 
stared  at  her  in  speechless  amazement. 


S2  BLIX 

"What  do  you  say?"  she  repeated,  looking  at  him 
and  smiling. 

"Why,  Blix!"  he  exclaimed  in  amazement,  "what 
do  you  mean?" 

"Just  what  I  say.     I  want  you  to  play  cards  with  me.  " 

"I'll  not  do  it,"  he  declared,  almost  coldly. 

"Listen  to  me,  Condy, "  answered  Blix;  and  for  quite 
five  minutes,  while  he  interrupted  and  protested  and 
pshawed  and  argued,  she  talked  to  him  calmly  and 
quietly. 

"I  don't  ask  you  to  stop  playing,  Condy,"  she  said, 
as  she  finished ;  ' '  I  just  ask  you  that  when  you  feel  you 
must  play — or — I  mean,  when  you  want  to  very  bad — 
you  will  come  and  play  with  me,  instead  of  playing  at 
your  club." 

"But  it's  absurd,  it's  preposterous.  I  hate  to  see  a 
girl  gambling — and  you  of  all  girls  ! " 

"  It's  no  worse  for  me  than  it  is  for  you  and — well,  do 
you  suppose  I  would  play  with  any  one  else  ?  Maybe 
you  think  I  can't  play  well  enough  to  make  it  interesting 
for  you/'  she  said  gaily.  " Is  that  it  ?  I  can  soon  show 
you,  Condy  Rivers — never  mind  when  I  learned  how.  " 

"  But,  Blix,  you  don't  know  how  often  we  play,  those 
men  and  I.  Why,  it  is  almost  every — you  don't  know 
how  often  we  play.  " 

"Condy,  whenever  you  want  to  play,  and  will  play 
with  me,  no  matter  what  I've  got  in  hand,  I'll  stop  every 
thing  and  play  with  you." 

"But  why?" 

"Because  I  think,  Condy,  that  this  way  perhaps  you 
won't  play  quite  so  often  at  first ;  and  then  little  by  little 
perhaps — perhaps — well,  never  mind  that  now.  /  want 
to  play;  put  it  that  way.  But  I  want  you  to  promise 
me  never  to  play  with  any  one  else — say  for  six  months. " 

And  in  the  end,  whipped  by  a  sense  of  shame,  Condy 


BLIX  83 

made  her  the  promise.  They  became  very  gay  upon  the 
instant. 

"Hoh!"  exclaimed  Condy;  "what  do  you  know  of 
poker  ?  I  think  we  had  best  play  old  sledge  or  casino. " 

Blix  had  dealt  a  hand  and  partitioned  the  chips. 

"  Straights  and  flushes  before  the  draw,  "  she  announced 
calmly. 

Condy  started  and  stared.  Then  looking  at  her 
askance,  he  picked  up  his  hand. 

"It's  up  to  you.  " 

"I'll  make  it  five  to  play.  " 

"Five?     Very  well.     How  many  cards?" 

"Three." 

"I'll  take  two." 

"Bet  you  five  more." 

Blix  looked  at  her  hand.  Then,  without  trace  of 
expression  in  her  voice  or  face,  said: 

"There's  your  five,  and  I'll  raise  you  five." 

"  Five  better. " 

"And  five  better  than  that. " 

"Call  you." 

"Full  house.  Aces  on  tens,"  said  Blix,  throwing 
down  her  cards. 

"  Heavens  !  They're  good  as  gold  ! "  muttered  Condy 
as  Blix  gathered  in  the  chips. 

An  hour  later  she  had  won  all  the  chips  but  five. 

"Now  we'll  stop  and  get  to  fishing  again;  don't  you 
want  to?" 

He  agreed,  and  she  counted  the  chips. 

"Condy,  you  owe  me  seven  dollars  and  a  half,"  she 
announced. 

Condy  began  to  smile.  "Well,"  he  said  jocosely, 
"I'll  send  you  around  a  check  to-morrow.  " 

But  at  this  Blix  was  cross  upon  the  instant.  "You 
wouldn't  do  that — wouldn't  talk  that  way  with  one  of 


84  BLIX 

your  friends  at  the  club  !"  she  exclaimed;  "and  it's  not 
right  to  do  it  with  me.  Condy,  give  me  seven  dollars 
and  a  half.  When  you  play  cards  with  me  it's  just  as 
though  it  were  with  another  man.  I  would  have  paid 
you  if  you  had  won. " 

"But  I  haven't  got  more  than  nine  dollars.  Who'll 
pay  for  the  supper  to-night  at  Luna's,  and  our  railroad 
fare  going  home?" 

"I'll  pay." 

"But  I — I  can't  afford  to  lose  money  this  way. " 

"Shouldn't  have  played,  then ;  I  took  the  same  chances 
as  you.  Condy,  I  want  my  money. " 

"You — you — why,  you've  regularly  flimflammed  me. " 

"Will  you  give  me  my  money ? " 

"Oh,  take  your  money,  then!" 

Blix  shut  the  money  in  her  purse,  and  rose,  dusting 
her  dress. 

"Now,"  she  said — "now  that  the  pastime  of  card- 
playing  is  over,  we  will  return  to  the  serious  business  of 
life,  which  is  the  catching — no,  'killing' — of  lake  trout.  " 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Condy  pulled  up  the 
anchor  of  railroad  iron  and  rowed  back  to  Richardson's. 
Blix  had  six  trout  to  her  credit,  but  Condy 's  ill-luck 
had  been  actually  ludicrous. 

"I  can  hold  a  string  in  the  water  as  long  as  anybody, " 
he  complained,  "but  I'd  like  to  have  the  satisfaction  of 
merely  changing  the  bait  occasionally.  I've  not  had  a 
single  bite — not  a  nibble,  y'know,  all  day.  Never  mind, 
you  got  the  big  trout,  Blix;  that  first  one.  That  five 
minutes  was  worth  the  whole  day.  It's  been  glorious, 
the  whole  thing.  We'll  come  down  here  once  a  week 
right  along  now." 

But  the  one  incident  that  completed  the  happiness 
of  that  wonderful  day  occurred  just  as  they  were  getting 
out  of  the  boat  on  the  shore  at  Richardson's.  In  a 


BLIX  85 

mudhole  between  two  rocks  they  discovered  a  tiny 
striped  snake,  hardly  bigger  than  a  lead  pencil,  in  the 
act  of  swallowing  a  little  green  frog,  and  they  passed  a 
rapt  ten  minutes  in  witnessing  the  progress  of  this 
miniature  drama,  which  culminated  happily  in  the 
victim's  escape  and  triumph  of  virtue. 

"That,"  declared  Blix,  as  they  climbed  into  the  old 
buggy  which  was  to  take  them  to  the  train,  "was  the 
one  thing  necessary.  That  made  the  day  perfect.  " 

They  reached  the  city  at  dusk,  and  sent  their  fish, 
lunch -basket,  and  rods  up  to  the  Bessemers'  flat  by  a 
messenger  boy  with  an  explanatory  note  for  Blix's 
father. 

"Now,"  said  Condy,  "for  Luna's  and  the  'Matri 
monial  Objects.'" 


VII 


LUNA'S  Mexican  restaurant  has  no  address.  It  is  on 
no  particular  street,  at  no  particular  corner;  even  its 
habitue's,  its  most  enthusiastic  devotees,  are  unable  to 
locate  it  upon  demand.  It  is  "  over  there  in  the  quarter, ' ' 
"not  far  from  the  cathedral  there."  One  could  find  it 
if  one  started  out  with  that  intent ;  but  to  direct  another 
there — no,  that  is  out  of  the  question.  It  can  be 
reached  by  following  the  alleys  of  Chinatown.  You 
will  come  out  of  the  last  alley — the  one  where  the  slave 
girls  are — upon  the  edge  of  the  Mexican  quarter,  and 
by  going  straight  forward  a  block  or  two,  and  by 
keeping  a  sharp  lookout  to  right  and  left,  you  will 
hit  upon  it.  It  is  always  to  be  searched  for — always 
to  be  discovered. 

On  that  particular  Monday  evening  Blix  and  Condy 
arrived  at  Luna's  some  fifteen  minutes  before  seven. 
Condy  had  lost  himself  and  all  sense  of  direction  in  the 
strange  streets  of  the  quarter,  and  they  were  on  the  very 
brink  of  despair  when  Blix  discovered  the  sign  upon  an 
opposite  corner. 

As  Condy  had  foretold,  they  had  the  place  to  them 
selves.  They  went  into  the  back  room,  with  its  one 
mirror,  six  tables  and  astonishing  curtains  of  Nottingr 
ham  lace;  and  the  waiter,  whose  name  was  Richard  or 
Riccardo,  according  to  taste,  began  to  officiate  at  the 
solemn  rites  of  the  "supper  Mexican.  "  Condy  and  Blix 
ate  with  their  eyes  continually  wandering  to  the  door; 
and  as  the  frijoles  were  being  served,  started  simul 
taneously  and  exchanged  glances. 

86 


BLIX  87 

A  man  wearing  two  marguerites  in  the  lapel  of  his  coat 
had  entered  abruptly,  and  sat  down  at  a  table  close  at 
hand. 

Condy  drew  a  breath  of  suppressed  excitement. 

"There  he  is, "  he  whispered — " Captain  Jack  ! " 

They  looked  at  the  newcomer  with  furtive  anxiety, 
and  told  themselves  that  they  were  disappointed.  For 
a  retired  sea  captain  he  was  desperately  commonplace. 
His  hair  was  red,  he  was  younger  than  they  had  expected, 
and,  worst  of  all,  he  did  look  tough. 

"Oh,  poor  K.  D.  B  !"  sighed  Blix,  shaking  her  head. 
"He'll  never  do,  I'm  afraid.  Perhaps  he  has  a  good 
heart,  though;  red-headed  people  are  sometimes  affec 
tionate." 

"They  are  impulsive,"  hazarded  Condy. 

As  he  spoke  the  words,  a  second  man  entered  the  little 
room.  He,  too,  sat  down  at  a  nearby  table.  He,  too, 
ordered  the  "supper  Mexican."  He,  too,  wore  mar 
guerites  in  his  buttonhole. 

"Death  and  destruction!"  gasped  Condy,  turning 
pale. 

Blix  collapsed  helplessly  in  her  chair,  her  hands  drop 
ping  in  her  lap.  They  stared  at  each  other  in  utter 
confusion. 

"Here's  a  how-do-you-do,"  murmured  Condy,  pre 
tending  to  strip  a  tamale  that  Richard  had  just  set 
before  him.  But  Blix  had  pushed  hers  aside. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  whispered  Condy  across  the 
table.  "In  Heaven's  name,  what  does  it  mean?" 

"It  can  only  mean  one  thing,"  Blix  declared;  "one 
of  them  is  the  Captain  and  one  is  a  coincidence.  Any 
body  might  wear  a  marguerite ;  we  ought  to  have  thought 
of  that." 

"  But  which  is  which  ?" 

"  If  K.  D.  B.  should  come  now  ! " 


88  BLIX 

"But  the  last  man  looks  more  like  the  Captain." 

The  last  man  was  a  sturdy,  broad-shouldered  fellow, 
who  might  have  been  forty.  His  heavy  mustache  was 
just  touched  with  gray,  and  he  did  have  a  certain  vague 
"sober  and  industrious"  appearance.  But  the  differ 
ence  between  the  two  men  was  slight,  after  all;  the  red 
headed  man  could  easily  have  been  a  sea  captain,  and  he 
certainly  was  over  thirty-five. 

Which  ?  which  ?  which  ? — how  can  we  tell  ?  We 
might  think  of  some  way  to  get  rid  of  the  coincidence, 
if  we  could  only  tell  which  the  coincidence  was.  We 
owe  it  to  K.  D.  B.  In  a  way,  Condy,  it's  our  duty. 
We  brought  her  here,  or  we  are  going  to,  and  we  ought 
to  help  her  all  we  can;  and  she  may  be  here  at  any 
moment.  What  time  is  it  now?" 

"Five  minutes  after  seven.  But,  Blix,  I  should  think 
the  right  one — the  captain — would  be  all  put  out  himself 
by  seeing  another  chap  here  wearing  marguerites.  Does 
either  one  of  them  seem  put  out  to  you?  Look.  I 
should  think  the  Captain,  whichever  one  he  is,  would 
kind  of  glare  at  the  coincidence." 

Stealthily  they  studied  the  two  men  for  a  moment. 

"No,  no,"  murmured  Blix,  "you  can't  tell.  Neither 
of  them  seems  to  glare  much.  Oh,  Condy" — her  voice 
dropped  to  a  faint  whisper.  "The  red-headed  one  has 
put  his  hat  on  a  chair,  just  behind  him — notice  ?  Do 
you  suppose  if  you  stood  up  you  could  see  inside  ?" 

"What  good  would  that  do  ?" 

"He  might  have  his  initials  inside  the  crown,  or  his 
whole  name  even;  and  you  could  see  if  he  had  a  'Captain' 
before  it." 

Condy  made  a  pretense  of  rising  to  get  a  match  in  a 
ribbed,  truncated  cone  of  china  that  stood  upon  an 
adjacent  table,  and  Blix  held  her  breath  as  he  glanced 
down  into  the  depths  of  the  hat.  He  resumed  his  seat. 


BLIX  89 

"Only  initials,"  he  breathed — "W.  J.  A.  It  might 
be  Jack,  that  J.,  and  it  might  be  Joe,  or  Jeremiah,  or 
Joshua;  and  even  if  he  was  a  captain  he  might  not  use 
the  title.  We're  no  better  off  than  we  were  before." 

"And  K.  D.  B.  may  come  at  any  moment.  Maybe 
she  has  come  already  and  looked  through  the  windows, 
and  saw  two  men  with  marguerites  and  went  away. 
She'd  be  just  that  timid.  What  can  we  do  ?" 

"Wait  a  minute.  Look  here,"  murmured  Condy. 
"I've  an  idea.  /'//  find  out  which  the  captain  is.  You 
see  that  picture,  that  chromo,  on  the  wall  opposite?" 

Blix  looked  as  he  indicated.  The  picture  was  a 
gorgeously  coloured  lithograph  of  a  pilot-boat,  schooner- 
rigged,  all  sails  set,  dashing  bravely  through  seas  of 
emerald  green  colour. 

"You  mean  that  schooner?"  asked  Blix. 

"That  schooner,  exactly.  Now  listen.  You  ask 
me  in  a  loud  voice  what  kind  of  a  boat  that  is;  and 
when  I  answer,  you  keep  your  eye  on  the  two  men." 

"Why,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"You'll  see.     Try  it  now;  we've  no  time  to  lose." 

Blix  shifted  in  her  seat  and  cleared  her  throat.     Then: 

"What  a  pretty  boat  that  is  up  there,  that  picture  on 
the  wall.  See  over  there,  on  the  wall  opposite?  Do 
you  notice  it?  Isn't  she  pretty?  Condy,  tell  me,  what 
kind  of  a  boat  is  that  ?" 

Condy  turned  about  in  his  place  with  great  delibera 
tion,  fixed  the  picture  with  a  judicial  eye,  and  announced 
decisively: 

"That? — why,  that's  a  barkentine" 

Condy  had  no  need  to  wait  for  Blix's  report.  The 
demonstration  came  far  too  quickly  for  that.  The 
red-headed  man  at  his  loud  declaration  merely  glanced 
in  the  direction  of  the  chromo  and  returned  to  his 
enchellados.  But  he  of  the  black  mustache  followed 


90  BLIX 

Condy's  glance,  noted  the  picture  of  which  he  spoke, 
and  snorted  contemptuously.  They  even  heard  him 
mutter  beneath  his  mustache  : 

"Barkentine  your  eye!" 

"No  doubt  as  to  which  is  the  captain  now,"  whispered 
Condy  so  soon  as  the  other  had  removed  from  him  a 
glance  of  withering  scorn. 

They  could  hardly  restrain  their  gaiety;  but  their 
gravity  promptly  returned  when  Blix  kicked  Condy's 
foot  under  the  table  and  murmured:  "He's  looking  at 
his  watch,  the  Captain  is.  K.  D.  B.  isn't  here  yet, 
and  the  red-headed  man,  the  coincidence,  is.  We 
must  get  rid  of  him.  Condy,  can't  you  think  of  some 
thing?" 

"Well,  he  won't  go  till  he's  through  his  supper,  you 
can  depend  upon  that.  If  he's  here  when  K.  D.  B. 
arrives,  it  will  spoil  everything.  She  wouldn't  stay 
a  moment.  She  wouldn't  even  come  in." 

"Isn't  it  disappointing?  And  I  had  so  counted  upon 
bringing  these  two  together?  And  Captain  Jack  is  a 
nice  man !" 

"You  can  see  that  with  one  hand  tied  behind  you," 
whispered  Condy.  "The  other  chap's  tough." 

"Looks  just  like  the  kind  of  man  to  get  into  jail 
sooner  or  later." 

"Maybe  he's  into  some  mischief  now;  you  never  can 
tell.  And  the  Mexican  quarter  of  San  Francisco  is  just 
the  place  for  'affairs.'  I'll  warrant  he's  got  pals." 

"Well,  here  he  is — that's  the  main  point — just  keeping 
those  people  apart  spoiling  a  whole  romance.  Maybe 
ruining  their  lives.  It's  quite  possible;  really  it  is. 
Just  stop  and  think.  This  is  a  positive  crisis  we're 
looking  at  now." 

"Can't  we  get  rid  of  him  somehow?" 

"O-oh !"  whispered  Blix,  all  at  once,  in  a  quiver  of 


BLIX  9i 

excitement.  "There  is  a  way,  if  we'd  ever  have  the 
courage  to  do  it.  It  might  work;  and  if  it  didn't,  he'd 
never  know  the  difference,  never  would  suspect  us.  Oh  ! 
but  we  wouldn't  dare." 

"What?  what?     In  Heaven's  name  what  is  it,  Blix?" 

"We  wouldn't  dare — we  couldn't.  Oh  !  but  it  would 
be  such " 

"K.  D.  B.  may  come  in  that  door  at  any  second." 

"I'm  half  afraid,  but  all  the  same Condy,  let 

me  have  a  pencil."  She  dashed  off  a  couple  of  lines 
on  the  back  of  the  bill  of  fare,  and  her  hand  trembled 
like  a  leaf  as  she  handed  him  what  she  had  written. 

"Send  him — the  red-headed  man — that  telegram. 
There's  an  office  just  two  doors  below  here,  next  the 
drug  store.  I  saw  it  as  we  came  by.  You  know  his 
initials;  remember  you  saw  them  in  his  hat.  W.  J.  A., 
Luna's  restaurant.  That's  all  you  want." 

"Lord,"  muttered  Condy,  as  he  gazed  upon  what 
Blix  had  written. 

"Do  you  dare?"  she  whispered,  with  a  little  hysterical 
shudder. 

"If  it  failed  we've  nothing  to  lose." 

"And  K.  D.  is  coming  nearer  every  instant !" 

"But  would  he  go — that  is,  at  once?" 

"We  can  only  try.  You  won't  be  gone  a  hundred 
seconds.  You  can  leave  me  here  that  length  of  time. 
Quick,  Condy;  decide  one  way  or  the  other.  It's  getting 
desperate." 

Condy  reached  for  his  hat. 

"Give  me  some  money,  then,"  he  said.  "You  won 
all  of  mine." 

A  few  moments  later  he  was  back  again;  and  the 
two  sat,  pretending  to  eat  their  chili  peppers,  their  hearts 
in  their  throats,  hardly  daring  to  raise  their  eyes  from 
their  plates.  Condy  was  actually  sick  with  excite- 


92  BLIX 

ment,  and  all  but  tipped  the  seltzer  bottle  to  the  floor 
when  a  messenger  boy  appeared  in  the  outer  room. 
The  boy  and  the  proprietor  held  a  conference  over  the 
counter.  Then  Richard  appeared  between  the  portieres 
of  Nottingham  lace,  the  telegram  in  his  hand  and  the 
boy  at  his  heels. 

Evidently  Richard  knew  the  red-headed  man,  for  he 
crossed  over  to  him  at  once  with  the  words : 

''I  guess  this  is  for  you,  Mr.  Atkins." 

He  handed  him  the  despatch  and  retired.  The  red 
headed  man  signed  the  receipt.  The  boy  departed. 
Blix  and  Condy  heard  the  sound  of  torn  paper  as  the 
red-headed  man  opened  the  telegram. 

Ten  seconds  passed,  then  fifteen,  then  twenty.  There 
was  a  silence.  Condy  dared  to  steal  a  glance  at  the  red 
headed  man's  reflection  in  the  mirror.  He  was  studying 
the  despatch,  frowning  horribly.  He  put  it  away  in  his 
pocket,  took  it  out  again  with  a  fierce  movement  of 
impatience,  and  consulted  it  a  second  time.  His  "  supper 
Mexican"  remained  untasted  before  him;  Condy  and 
Blix  heard  him  breathing  loud  through  his  nose.  That 
he  was  profoundly  agitated  they  could  not  doubt  for  a 
single  moment.  All  at  once  a  little  panic  terror  seemed 
to  take  possession  of  him.  He  rose,  seized  his  hat, 
jammed  it  over  his  ears,  slapped  a  half-dollar  upon  the 
table,  and  strode  from  the  restaurant. 

This  is  what  the  red-headed  man  had  read  in  the 
despatch ;  this  is  what  Blix  had  written : 

"All  is  discovered.     Fly  at  once." 

And  never  in  all  their  subsequent  rambles  about  the 
city  did  Blix  or  Condy  set  eyes  upon  the  red-headed  man 
again;  nor  did  Luna's  restaurant,  where  he  seemed  to 
have  been  a  habitue,  ever  afterward  know  his  presence. 
He  disappeared;  he  was  swallowed  up.  He  had  left  the 
restaurant,  true.  Had  he  also  left  that  neighbourhood? 


BLIX  93 

Had  he  fled  the  city,  the  State,  the  country  even? 
What  skeleton  in  the  red-headed  man's  closet  had  those 
six  words  called  to  life  and  the  light  of  day  ?  Had  they 
frightened  him  forth  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  days  fleeing 
from  an  unnamed,  unknown  avenger — a  veritable 
wandering  Jew  ?  What  mystery  had  they  touched  upon 
there  in  the  bald,  bare  back  room  of  the  Quarter's 
restaurant?  What  dark  door  had  they  opened,  what 
red-headed  phantom  had  they  evoked?  Had  they 
broken  up  a  plot,  thwarted  a  conspiracy,  prevented  a 
crime  ?  They  never  knew.  One  thing  only  was  certain. 
The  red-headed  man  had  had  a  past. 

Meanwhile  the  minutes  were  passing,  and  K.  D.  B. 
still  failed  to  appear.  Captain  Jack  was  visibly  growing 
impatient,  anxious.  By  now  he  had  come  to  the  fiery 
liquor  called  mescal.  He  was  nearly  through  his  supper. 
At  every  moment  he  consulted  his  watch  and  fixed  the 
outside  door  with  a  scowl.  It  was  already  twenty 
minutes  after  seven. 

"I  know  the  red-headed  man  spoiled  it,  after  all," 
murmured  Blix.  "  K.  D.  B.  saw  the  two  of  them  in 
here  and  was  frightened.  " 

"We  could  send  Captain  Jack  a  telegram  from  her," 
suggested  Condy.  "I'm  ready  for  anything  now. " 

"What  could  you  say ? " 

"Oh,  that  she  couldn't  come.  Make  another  appoint 
ment.  " 

"He'd  be  offended  with  her.  He'd  never  make 
another  appointment.  Sea  captains  are  always  so 
punctilious,  y'  know." 

Richard  brought  them  their  coffee  and  kirsch,  and 
Condy  showed  Blix  how  to  burn  a  lump  of  sugar  and 
sweeten  the  coffee  with  syrup.  But  they  were  disap 
pointed.  Captain  Jack  was  getting  ready  to  leave. 
K.  D.  B.  had  evidently  broken  the  appointment. 


94  BLIX 

Then  all  at  once  she  appeared. 

They  knew  it  upon  the  instant  by  a  brisk  opening  and 
shutting  of  the  street  door,  and  by  a  sudden  alertness  on 
the  part  of  Captain  Jack,  which  he  immediately  followed 
by  a  quite  inexplicable  move.  The  street  door  in  the 
outside  room  had  hardly  closed  before  his  hand  shot  to 
his  coat  lapel  and  tore  out  the  two  marguerites. 

The  action  was  instinctive;  Blix  knew  it  for  such 
immediately.  The  retired  Captain  had  not  premeditated 
it.  He  had  not  seen  the  face  of  the  newcomer.  She 
had  not  time  to  come  into  the  back  room,  or  even  to  close 
the  street  door  But  the  instant  that  the  Captain  had 
recognized  a  bunch  of  white  marguerites  in  her  belt  he 
had,  without  knowing  why,  been  moved  to  conceal  his 
identity. 

"  He's  afraid, "  whispered  Blix.  "  Positively,  I  believe 
he's  afraid.  How  absolutely  stupid  men  are." 

But  meanwhile,  K.  D.  B.,  the  looked-for,  the  planned- 
for,  and  intrigued -for;  the  object  of  so  much  diplomacy  > 
such  delicate  manoeuvering;  the  pivot  upon  which  all 
plans  were  to  turn,  the  storm-centre  round  which  so 
many  conflicting  currents  revolved,  and  for  whose 
benefit  the  peace  of  mind  of  the  red-headed  man  had 
been  forever  broken  up — had  entered  the  room. 

"Why,  she's  pretty!"  was  Blix's  first  smothered 
exclamation,  as  if  she  had  expected  a  harridan. 

K.  D.  B.  looked  like  a  servant  girl  of  the  better  sort, 
and  was  really  very  neatly  dressed.  She  was  small, 
little  even.  She  had  snappy  black  eyes,  a  resolute 
mouth,  and  a  general  air  of  being  very  quiet,  very  matter- 
of-fact  and  complacent.  She  would  be  disturbed  at 
nothing;  Blix  was  sure  of  that.  She  was  placid,  but  it 
was  the  placidity  not  of  the  absence  of  emotion,  but  of 
emotion  disdained;  not  the  placidity  of  the  molluskt 
but  that  of  a  mature  and  contemplative  cat. 


BLIX  95 

Quietly  she  sat  down  at  a  corner  table,  quietly  she 
removed  her  veil  and  gloves,  and  quietly  she  took  in  the 
room  and  its  three  occupants. 

Condy  and  Blix  glued  their  eyes  upon  their  coffee  cups 
like  guilty  conspirators;  but  a  crash  of  falling  crockery 
called  their  attention  to  the  Captain's  table. 

Captain  Jack  was  in  a  tremour.  Hitherto  he  had  acted 
the  role  of  a  sane  and  sensible  gentleman  of  middle  age, 
master  of  himself  and  of  the  situation.  The  entrance 
of  K.  D.  B.  had  evidently  reduced  him  to  a  semi-idiotic 
condition.  He  enlarged  himself;  he  eased  his  neck  in 
his  collar  with  a  rotary  movement  of  head  and  shoulders. 
He  frowned  terribly  at  trifling  objects  in  corners  of  the 
room.  He  cleared  his  throat  till  the  glassware  jingled. 
He  pulled  at  his  mustache.  He  perspired,  fumed, 
fretted,  and  was  suddenly  seized  with  an  insane  desire  to 
laugh.  Once  only  he  caught  the  eye  of  K.  D.  B.,  calmly 
sitting  in  her  corner  picking  daintily  at  her  fish,  where 
upon  he  immediately  overturned  the  vinegar  and  pepper 
casters  upon  the  floor.  Just  so  might  have  behaved  an 
overgrown  puppy  in  the  presence  of  a  sleepy,  unper 
turbed  chessy-cat,  dozing  by  the  fire. 

"  He  ought  to  be  shaken, "  murmured  Blix  at  the  end 
of  her  patience.  ' '  Does  he  think  she  is  going  to  make 
the  first  move?" 

"Ha,  ah'm!"  thundered  the  Captain,  clearing  his 
throat  for  the  twentieth  time,  twirling  his  mustache, 
and  burying  his  scarlet  face  in  an  enormous  pocket 
handkerchief. 

Five  minutes  passed  and  he  was  still  in  his  place. 
From  time  to  time  K.  D.  B.  fixed  him  with  a  quiet, 
deliberate  look,  and  resumed  her  delicate  picking. 

"Do  you  think  she  knows  it's  him,  now  that  he's 
taken  off  his  marguerites?"  whispered  Condy. 

"Know    it?     Of    course  she  does!     Do    you    think 


96  BLIX 

women  are  absolutely  blind,  or  so  imbecile  as  men  are? 
And  then,  if  she  didn't  think  it  was  him,  she'd  go  away. 
And  she's  so  really  pretty,  too.  He  ought  to  thank  his 
stars  alive.  Think  what  a  fright  she  might  have  been ! 
She  doesn't  look  thirty-one." 

"Huh!"  returned  Condy.  "As  long  as  she  said  she 
was  thirty-one,  you  can  bet  everything  you  have  that 
she  is;  that's  as  true  as  revealed  religion." 

"Well,  it's  something  to  have  seen  the  kind  of  people 
who  write  the  personals,"  said  Blix.  "I  had  always 
imagined  that  they  were  kind  of  tough." 

"You  see  they  are  not,"  he  answered.  "I  told  you 
they  were  not.  Maybe,  however,  we  have  been  excep 
tionally  fortunate.  At  any  rate,  these  are  respectable 
enough." 

"Not  the  least  doubt  about  that.  But  why  don't  he 
do  something,  that  captain?"  murmured  Blix.  "Why 
will  he  act  like  such  a  ninny?" 

" He's  waiting  for  us  to  go,"  said  Condy;  "  I'm  sure  of 
it.  They'll  never  meet  so  long  as  we're  here.  Let  us 
go  and  give  'em  a  chance.  If  you  leave  the  two  alone 
here,  one  or  the  other  will  have  to  speak.  The  suspense 
would  become  too  terrible.  It  would  be  as  though  they 
were  on  a  desert  island." 

"But  I  wanted  to  see  them  meet,"  she  protested. 

"You  wouldn't  hear  what  they  said." 

"But  we'd  never  know  if  they  did  meet,  and  oh — 
and  who  spoke  first?" 

"She'll  speak  first,"  declared  Condy. 

"Never!"  returned  Blix,  in  an  indignant  whisper. 

"I  tell  you  what.  We  could  go  and  then  come 
back  in  five  minutes.  I'll  forget  my  stick  here. 
Savvy?" 

"You  would  probably  do  it  anyhow,"  she  told  him. 

They  decided  this  would  be  the  better  course.     They 


BLIX  97 

got  together  their  things,  and  Condy  neglected  his  stick, 
hanging  upon  a  hook  on  the  wall. 

At  the  counter  in  the  outside  room,  Blix,  to  the  stupe 
faction  of  Richard,  the  waiter,  paid  the  bill.  But  as  she 
was  moving  toward  the  door,  Condy  called  her  back. 

"Remember  the  waiter,'*  he  said  severely,  while 
Richard  grinned  and  bobbed.  "Fifty  cents  is  the  very 
least  you  could  tip  him."  Richard  actually  protested, 
but  Condy  was  firm,  and  insisted  upon  a  half-dollar  tip. 

''Noblesse  oblige''  he  declared  with  vast  solemnity. 

They  walked  as  far  as  the  cathedral,  listened  for  a 
moment  to  the  bell  striking  the  hour  of  eight;  then  as 
they  remembered  that  the  restaurant  closed  at  that 
time,  hurried  back  and  entered  the  outside  room  in 
feigned  perturbation. 

"Did  I,  could  I  possibly  have  left  my  stick  here!'' 
exclaimed  Condy  to  Richard,  who  was  untying  his  apron 
behind  the  counter.  But  Richard  had  not  noticed. 

"I  think  I  must  have  left  it  back  here  where  we  were 
sitting." 

Condy  stepped  into  the  back  room,  Blix  following. 
They  got  his  stick  and  returned  to  the  outside  room. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  did  leave  it,"  he  said,  as  he  showed  it  to 
Richard.  "  I  m  always  leaving  that  stick  wherever  I  go." 

"Come  again,"  said  Richard,  as  he  bowed  them  out 
of  the  door. 

On  the  curb  outside  Condy  and  Blix  shook  hands 
and  congratulated  each  other  on  the  success  of  all  their 
labours.  In  the  back  room,  seated  at  the  same  table, 
a  bunch  of  wilting  marguerites  between  them,  they  had 
seen  their  "Matrimonial  Objects''  conferring  earnestly 
together,  absorbed  in  the  business  of  getting  acquainted. 

Blix  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  and  satisfaction, 
exclaiming : 

"At  last  K.  D.  B.  and  Captain  Jack  have  met!" 


VIII 

"Bur,"  she  added,  as  they  started  to  walk,  "we  will 
never  know  which  one  spoke  first." 

But  Condy  was  already  worrying. 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  he  murmured  anx 
iously.  "Perhaps  we've  done  an  awful  thing.  Suppose 
they  aren't  happy  together  after  they're  married?  I 
wish  we  hadn't;  I  wish  we  hadn't  now.  We've  been 
playing  a  game  of  checkers  with  human  souls.  We've 
an  awful  responsibility.  Suppose  he  kills  her  some 
time?" 

"Fiddlesticks,  Condy!  And,  besides,  if  we've  done 
wrong  with  our  matrimonial  objects,  we've  offset  it  by 
doing  well  with  our  red-headed  coincidence  How  do 
you  know,  you  may  have  'foiled  a  villain*  with  that 
telegram — prevented  a  crime?" 

Condy  grinned  at  the  recollection  of  the  incident. 
"Fly  at  once,'"  he  repeated.     "I  guess  he's  flying 
yet.      'All    is   discovered.'      I'd   give   a   dollar   and   a 
half " 

"If  you  had  it?" 

"Oh,  well,  if  I  had  it — to  know  just  what  it  was  we 
have  discovered." 

Suddenly  Blix  caught  his  arm. 

"  Condy,  here  they  come  ! " 

"Who?     Who?" 

"Our  objects,  Captain  Jack  and  K.  D   B." 

"Of  course,  of  course  They  couldn't  stay.  The 
restaurant  shuts  up  at  eight." 

Blix  and  Condy  had  been  walking  slowly  in  the  direc- 


BLIX  99 

tion  of  Pacific  Street,  and  K.  D.  B.  and  her  escort  soon 
overtook  them  going  in  the  same  direction.  As  they 
passed,  the  Captain  was  saying: 

— jumped  on  my  hatches,  and  says  we'll  make  it  an 
international  affair.     That  didn't ' 

A  passing  wagon  drowned  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

"He  was  telling  her  of  his  adventures!"  cried  Blix. 
"Splendid!  Othello  and  Desdemona.  They're  getting 
on." 

"Let's  follow  them!"  exclaimed  Condy. 

"Should  we?     Wouldn't  it  be — indiscreet?" 

"  No.  We  are  the  arbiters  of  their  fate;  we  must  take 
an  interest." 

They  allowed  their  objects  to  get  ahead  some  half  a 
block  and  then  fell  in  behind.  There  was  little  danger 
of  their  being  detected.  The  Captain  and  K.  D.  B. 
were  absorbed  in  each  other.  She  had  even  taken  his 
arm. 

"They  make  a  fine-looking  couple,  really,"  said  Blix. 
"Where  do  you  suppose  they  are  going?  To  another 
restaurant?" 

But  this  was  not  the  case.  Blix  and  Condy  followed 
them  as  far  as  Washington  Square,  where  the  Geodetic 
Survey  stone  stands,  and  the  enormous  flagstaff;  and 
there  in  front  of  a  commonplace  little  house,  two  doors 
above  the  Russian  church  with  its  minarets  like  inverted 
balloons,  K.  D.  B.  and  the  Captain  halted.  For  a  few 
moments  they  conversed  in  low  tones  at  the  gate,  then 
said  good -night.  K.  D.  B.  entering  the  house,  the 
Captain  bowing  with  great  deference,  his  hat  in  his 
hand.  Then  he  turned  about,  glanced  once  or  twice  at 
the  house,  set  his  hat  at  an  angle,  and  disappeared 
across  the  square,  whistling  a  tune,  his  chin  in  the  air. 

"Very  good,  excellent,  highly  respectable,"  approved 
Blix;  and  Condy  himself  fetched  a  sigh  of  relief. 


ioo  BLIX 

"Yes,  yes,  it  might  have  been  worse." 

"We'll  never  see  them  again,  our  'Matrimonial 
Objects,' ' '  said  Blix,  "and  they'll  never  know  about  us; 
but  we  have  brought  them  together.  We've  started  a 
romance.  Yes,  I  think  we've  done  a  good  day's  work. 
And  now,  Condy,  I  think  we  had  best  be  thinking  of  home 
ourselves.  I'm  just  beginning  to  get  most  awfully 
sleepy.  What  a  day  we've  had.  " 

A  sea  fog,  or  rather  the  sea  fog — San  Francisco's  old 
and  inseparable  companion — had  gathered  by  the  time 
they  reached  the  top  of  the  Washington  Street  hill. 
Everything  was  wet  with  it.  The  asphalt  was  like 
varnished  ebony.  Indistinct  masses  and  huge  dim 
shadows  stood  for  the  houses  on  either  side.  From  the 
eucalyptus  trees  and  the  palms  the  water  dripped  like 
rain.  Far  off,  oceanward,  the  fog  horn  was  lowing  like 
a  lost  gigantic  bull.  The  gray  bulk  of  a  policeman — 
the  light  from  the  street  lamp  reflected  in  his  star — 
loomed  upon  the  corner  as  they  descended  from  the  car. 

Condy  had  intended  to  call  his  diver's  story  "A 
Submarine  Romance,"  but  Blix  had  disapproved. 

"  It's  too  'Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  Under  the  Sea,' ' 
she  had  said.  "You  want  something  much  more  digni 
fied.  There  is  that  about  you,  Condy,  you  like  to  be  too 
showy;  you  don't  know  when  to  stop.  But  you  have 
left  off  red-and- white  scarfs,  and  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you  wearing  white  shirt-fronts  instead  of  pink  ones.  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  thought  it  would  be  quieter,"  he  had 
answered,  as  though  the  idea  had  come  from  him.  Blix 
allowed  him  to  think  so. 

But  "A  Victory  Over  Death, "  as  the  story  was  finally 
called,  was  a  success.  Condy  was  too  much  of  a  born 
story-teller  not  to  know  when  he  had  done  something 
distinctly  good.  When  the  story  came  back  from  the 


BLIX  101 

typewriter's,  with  the  additional  strength  that  print 
lends  to  fiction,  and  he  had  read  it  over,  he  could  not 
repress  a  sense  of  jubilation.  The  story  rang  true. 

"Bully,  bully!"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth  as  he 
finished  the  last  paragraph.  "It's  a  corker!  If  it's 
rejected  everywhere,  it's  an  out-of -sight  yarn  just  the 
same. " 

And  there  Condy's  enthusiasm  in  the  matter  began  to 
dwindle.  The  fine  fire  which  had  sustained  him  during 
the  story's  composition  had  died  out.  He  was  satis 
fied  with  his  work.  He  had  written  a  good  story,  and 
that  was  the  end  of  it.  No  doubt  he  would  send  it  east 
— to  the  Centennial  Company — to-morrow  or  the  day 
after — some  time  that  week.  To  mail  the  manuscript 
meant  quite  half  an  hour's  effort.  He  would  have  to 
buy  stamps  for  return  postage ;  a  letter  would  have  to  be 
written,  a  large  envelope  procured,  the  accurate  address 
ascertained.  For  the  moment  his  supplement  work 
demanded  his  attention.  He  put  off  sending  the  story 
from  day  to  day.  His  interest  in  it  abated.  And  for 
the  matter  he  soon  discovered  he  had  other  things  to 
think  of. 

It  had  been  easy  to  promise  Blix  that  he  would  no 
longer  gamble  at  his  club  with  the  other  men  of  his 
acquaintance;  but  it  was  "death  and  the  devil,"  as  he 
told  himself,  to  abide  by  that  promise.  More  than  once 
in  the  fortnight  following  upon  his  resolution  he  had 
come  up  to  the  little  flat  on  the  Washington  Street  hill  as 
to  a  place  of  refuge;  and  Blix,  always  pretending  that  it 
was  all  a  huge  joke  and  part  of  their  good  times,  had 
brought  out  the  cards  and  played  with  him.  But  she 
knew  very  well  the  fight  he  was  making  against  the 
enemy,  and  how  hard  it  was  for  him  to  keep  from  the 
round,  green  tables  and  group  of  silent,  shirt-sleeved 
men  in  the  card-rooms  of  his  club.  She  looked  forward 


102  BLIX 

to  the  time  when  Condy  would  cease  to  play  even  with 
her.  But  she  was  too  sensible  and  practical  a  girl  to 
expect  him  to  break  a  habit  of  years'  standing  in  a  couple 
of  weeks.  The  thing  would  have  to  be  accomplished  little 
by  little.  At  times  she  had  misgivings  as  to  the  honesty 
of  the  course  she  had  adopted.  But  nowadays,  playing 
as  he  did  with  her  only,  Condy  gambled  but  two  or  three 
evenings  in  the  week,  and  then  not  for  more  than  two 
hours  at  a  time.  Heretofore  hardly  an  evening  that  had 
not  seen  him  at  the  round  table  in  his  club's  card-room, 
whence  he  had  not  risen  until  long  after  midnight. 

Condy  had  told  young  Sargeant  that  he  had  "re 
formed  "  in  the  matter  of  gambling,  and  intended  to 
swear  off  for  a  few  months.  Sargeant,  like  the 
thoroughbred  he  was,  never  urged  him  to  play  after 
that,  and  never  spoke  of  the  previous  night's  game 
when  Condy  was  about.  The  other  men  of  his 
"set"  were  no  less  thoughtful,  and,  though  they 
rallied  him  a  little  at  first  upon  his  defection,  soon 
let  the  matter  drop.  Condy  told  himself  that  there 
were  plenty  of  good  people  in  the  world,  after  all. 
Every  one  seemed  conspiring  to  make  it  easy  for 
him,  and  he  swore  at  himself  for  a  weak-kneed  cad. 

On  a  certain  Tuesday,  about  a  week  after  the  fishing 
excursion  and  the  affair  of  the  "Matrimonial  Objects," 
toward  half-past  six  in  the  evening,  Condy  was  in  his 
room,  dressing  for  a  dinner  engagement.  Young 
Sargeant 's  sister  had  invited  him  to  be  one  of  a  party 
who  were  to  dine  at  the  University  Club,  and  later  on 
fill  a  box  at  a  charity  play,  given  by  amateurs  at  one  of 
the  downtown  theatres.  But  as  he  was  washing  his 
linen  shirt-studs  with  his  tooth-brush,  his  eye  fell  upon  a 
note,  in  Laurie  Flagg's  handwriting,  that  lay  on  his 
writing-desk,  and  that  he  had  received  some  ten  days 
previous.  Condy  turned  cold  upon  the  instant,  hurled 


BLIX  103 

the  tooth-brush  across  the  room,  and  dropped  into  a 
chair  with  a  groan  of  despair.  Miss  Flagg  was  giving  a 
theatre  party  for  the  same  affair,  and  he  remembered 
now  that  he  had  promised  to  join  her  party  as  well, 
forgetting  all  about  the  engagement  he  had  made  with 
Miss  Sargeant.  It  was  impossible  at  this  late  hour  to 
accept  either  one  of  the  young  women's  invitations 
without  offending  the  other. 

"Well,  I  won't  go  to  either,  that's  all, "  he  vociferated 
-aloud  to  the  opposite  wall.  "I'll  send  'em  each  a  wire, 
and  say  that  I'm  sick  or  have  got  to  go  down  to  the 
•office,  and,  by  George !  I'll  go  up  and  see  Blix,  and  we'll 
read  and  make  things  to  eat.  " 

And  no  sooner  had  this  alternative  occurred  to  him 
than  it  appeared  too  fascinating  to  be  resisted.  A 
weight  seemed  removed  from  his  mind.  When  it  came 
to  that,  what  amusement  would  he  have  at  either  affair? 

"Sit  up  there  with  your  shirt-front  starched  like  a 
board,"  he  blustered,  "and  your  collar  throttling  you, 
and  smile  till  your  face  is  sore,  and  reel  off  small  talk  to 
a  girl  whose  last  name  you  can't  remember  !  Do  I  have 
any  fun;  does  it  do  me  any  good;  do  I  get  ideas  for 
yarns?  What  do  I  do  it  for?  /  don't  know." 

While  speaking  he  had  been  kicking  off  his  tight  shoes 
-and  such  of  his  full-dress  as  he  had  already  put  on,  and 
with  a  feeling  of  enormous  relief  turned  again  to  his 
sack  suit  of  tweed.  "Lord,  these  feel  better!"  he 
exclaimed,  as  he  substituted  the  loose  business  suit  for 
the  formal  rigidity  of  his  evening  dress.  It  was  with  a 
sensation  of  positive  luxury  that  he  put  on  a  "soft" 
:shirt  of  blue  cheviot  and  his  tan  walking-shoes. 

"But  no  more  red  scarfs,"  he  declared,  as  he  knotted 
his  black  satin  "club"  before  the  mirror.  "She  was 
right  there."  He  put  his  cigarettes  in  his  pocket, 
caught  up  his  hat,  and  started  for  the  Bessemers'  flat 


io4  BLIX 

with  a  feeling  of  joyous  expectancy  he  had  not  known 
for  days. 

Evidently  Blix  had  seen  him  coming,  for  she  opened 
the  door  herself;  and  it  suited  her  humour  for  the 
moment  to  treat  him  as  a  peddler  or  book-agent. 

"No,  no,"  she  said  airily,  her  head  in  the  air  as  she 
held  the  door.  "No,  we  don't  want  any  to-day.  We 
have  the  biography  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  Don't  want 
to  subscribe  to  any  Home  Book  of  Art.  We're  not 
artistic;  we  use  drapes  in  our  parlours.  Don't  want 
The  Wives  and  Mothers  of  Great  Men.'  " 

But  Condy  had  noticed  a  couple  of  young  women  on 
the  lower  steps  of  the  adjacent  flat,  quite  within  ear-shot, 
and  at  once  he  began  in  a  loud,  harsh  voice : 

"Well,  y'  know,  we  can't  wait  for  our  rent  forever; 
I'm  only  the  collector,  and  I've  nothing  to  do  with 
repairs.  Pay  your  rent  that's  three  months  overdue, 
and  then " 

But  Blix  pulled  him  within  the  house  and  clapped  to 
the  door. 

"Condy  Rivers!"  she  exclaimed,  her  cheeks  flaming, 
"those  are  our  neighbours.  They  heard  every  word. 
What  do  you  suppose  they  think?" 

"Huh!  I'd  rather  have  'em  think  I  was  a  rent 
collector  than  a  book-agent.  You  began  it.  'Evenin', 
Miss  Lady." 

'  'Evenin',  Mister  Man." 

But  Condy's  visit,  began  thus  gaily,  soon  developed 
along  much  more  serious  lines.  After  supper,  while  the 
light  still  lasted,  Blix  read  stories  to  him  while  he  smoked 
cigarettes  in  the  bay  window  of  the  dining-room.  But 
as  soon  as  the  light  began  to  go  she  put  the  book  aside, 
and  the  two  took  their  accustomed  places  in  the  window, 
and  watched  the  evening  burning  itself  out  over  the 
Golden  Gate. 


BLIX 


105 


It  was  just  warm  enough  to  have  one  of  the  windows 
opened,  and  for  a  long  time  after  the  dusk  they  sat 
listening  to  the  vague  clamour  of  the  city,  lapsing  by 
degrees,  till  it  settled  into  a  measured,  soothing  murmur, 
like  the  breathing  of  some  vast  monster  asleep.  Condy's 
cigarette  was  a  mere  red  point  in  the  half-darkness. 
The  smoke  drifted  out  of  the  open  window  in  long,  blue 
strata.  At  his  elbow  Blix  was  leaning  forward,  looking 
down  upon  the  darkening,  drowsing  city,  her  round, 
strong  chin  propped  upon  her  hand.  She  was  just  close 
enough  for  Condy  to  catch  the  sweet,  delicious  feminine 
perfume  that  came  indefinitely  from  her  clothes,  her 
hair,  her  neck.  From  where  Condy  sat  he  could  see 
the  silhouette  of  her  head  and  shoulders  against  the  dull 
golden  blur  of  the  open  window;  her  round,  high  fore 
head,  with  the  thick  yellow  hair  rolling  back  from  her 
temples  and  ears,  her  pink,  clean  cheeks,  her  little  dark- 
brown,  scintillating  eyes,  and  her  firm  red  mouth,  made 
all  the  firmer  by  the  position  of  her  chin  upon  her  hand. 
As  ever,  her  round,  strong  neck  was  swathed  high  and 
tight  in  white  satin;  but  between  the  topmost  fold  of 
the  satin  and  the  rose  of  one  small  ear-lobe  was  a  little 
triangle  of  white  skin,  that  was  partly  her  neck  and  partly 
her  cheek,  and  that  Condy  knew  should  be  softer  than 
down,  smoother  than  satin,  warm  and  sweet  and  redolent 
as  new  apples.  Condy  imagined  himself  having  the  right 
to  lean  toward  her  there  and  kiss  that  little  spot  upon 
her  neck  or  her  cheek;  and  as  he  fancied  it,  was  surprised 
to  find  his  breath  come  suddenly  quick,  and  a  barely 
perceptible  qualm,  as  of  a  certain  faintness,  thrill  him 
to  his  finger-tips;  and  then,  he  thought,  how  would 
it  be  if  he  could,  without  fear  of  rebuff,  reach  out  his 
arm  and  put  it  about  her  trim,  firm  waist,  and  draw 
her  very  close  to  him,  till  he  should  feel  the  satiny  cool 
ness  of  her  smooth  cheek  against  his;  till  he  could  sink 


io6  BLIX 

his  face  in  the  delicious,  fragrant  confusion  of  her  hair, 
then  turn  that  face  to  his — that  face  with  its  strong, 
calm  mouth  and  sweet,  full  lips — the  face  of  this  dear 
young  girl  of  nineteen,  and  then 

"I  say — I — shall  we — let's  read  again.  Let's — let's 
do  something." 

"Condy,  how  you  frightened  me!"  exclaimed  Blix, 
with  a  great  start.  "No,  listen:  I  want  to  talk  to  you, 
to  tell  you  something.  Papum  and  I  have  been  having 
some  very  long  and  serious  talks  since  you  were  last 
here.  What  do  you  think — I  may  go  away." 

"The  deuce  you  say!"  exclaimed  Condy,  sitting 
suddenly  upright.  "Where  to,  in  Heaven's  name?" 
he  added — "and  when?  and  what  for?" 

"To  New  York  to  study  medicine." 

There  was  a  silence;  then  Condy  exclaimed,  waving 
his  hands  at  her: 

"Oh,  go  right  on!  Don't  mind  me.  Little  thing 
like  going  to  New  York — to  study  medicine.  Of  course, 
that  happens  every  day,  a  mere  detail.  I  presume 
you'll  go  back  and  forth  for  your  meals  ?" 

Then  Blix  began  to  explain.  It  appeared  that  she 
had  two  aunts,  both  sisters  of  her  father — one  a  widow, 
the  other  unmarried.  The  widow,  a  certain  Mrs. 
Kihm,  lived  in  New  York,  and  was  wealthy,  and  had 
views  on  "women's  sphere  of  usefulness."  The  other, 
Miss  Bessemer,  a  little  old  maid  of  fifty,  Condy  had  on 
rare  occasions  seen  at  the  flat,  where  every  one  called 
her  Aunt  Dodd.  She  lived  in  that  vague  region  of  the 
city  known  as  the  Mission,  where  she  owned  a  little 
property. 

From  what  Blix  told  him  that  evening,  Condy  learned 
that  Mrs.  Kihm  had  visited  the  Coast  a  few  winters 
previous  and  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Blix.  Even 
then  she  had  proposed  to  Mr.  Bessemer  to  take  Blix 


BLIX  107 

back  to  New  York  with  her,  and  educate  her  to  some 
woman's  profession;  but  at  that  time  the  old  man  would 
not  listen  to  it.  Now  it  seemed  that  the  opportunity 
had  again  presented  itself. 

"She's  a  dear  old  lady,"  Blix  said;  "not  a  bit  strong- 
minded,  as  you  would  think,  and  ever  so  much  cleverer 
than  most  men.  She  manages  all  her  property  herself. 
For  the  last  month  she's  been  writing  again  to  Papum 
for  me  to  come  on  and  stay  with  her  three  or  four  years. 
She  hasn't  a  chick  nor  a  child,  and  she  don't  entertain 
or  go  out  any,  so  maybe  she  feels  lonesome.  Of  course, 
if  I  studied  there,  Papum  wouldn't  think  of  Aunt  Kihm 
— don't  you  know — paying  for  it  at  all.  I  wouldn't 
go  if  it  was  that  way.  But  I  could  stay  with  her  and 
she  could  make  a  home  for  me  while  I  was  there — if  I 
should  study — anything — study  medicine." 

"But  why?"  he  exclaimed.  "What  do  you  want  to 
study  to  be  a  doctor  for  ?  It  isn't  as  though  you  had  to 
support  yourself." 

"  I  know,  I  know  I've  not  got  to  support  myself.  But 
why  shouldn't  I  have  a  profession  just  like  a  man- 
just  like  you,  Condy  ?  You  stop  and  think.  It  seemed 
strange  to  me  when  I  first  thought  of  it ;  but  I  got  think 
ing  about  it  and  talking  it  over  with  Papum,  and  I 
should  love  it.  I'd  do  it,  not  because  I  would  have 
to  do  it,  but  because  it  would  interest  me.  Condy, 
you  know  that  I'm  not  a  bit  strong-minded,  and  that 
I  hate  a  masculine,  unfeminine  girl  as  much  as  you  do." 

"  But  a  medical  college,  Blix  !  You  don't  know  what 
you  are  talking  about." 

"Yes,  I  do.  There's  a  college  in  New  York  just  for 
women.  Aunt  Kihm  sent  me  the  prospectus,  and  it's 
one  of  the  best  in  the  country.  I  don't  dream  of  prac 
tising,  you  know;  at  least,  I  don't  think  about  that  now. 
But  one  must  have  some  occupation;  and  isn't  studying 


io8  BLIX 

medicine,  Condy,  better  than  piano-playing,  or  French 
courses,  or  literary  classes  and  Browning  circles  ?  Oh, 
I've  no  patience  with  that  kind  of  girl!  And  look  at 
the  chance  I  have  now ;  and  Aunt  Kihm  is  such  a  dear ! 
Think,  she  writes,  I  could  go  to  and  from  the  college  in 
her  coups  every  day,  and  I  would  see  New  York;  and 
just  being  in  a  big  city  like  that  is  an  education." 

"You're  right,  it  would  be  a  big  thing  for  you," 
assented  Condy,  "and  I  like  the  idea  of  you  studying 
something.  It  would  be  the  making  of  such  a  girl  as 
you,  Blix." 

And  then  Blix,  seeing  him  thus  acquiescent,  said: 

"Well,  it's  all  settled;  Papum  and  I  both  wrote  last 
night." 

"When  are  you  going?" 

"The  first  week  in  January." 

"Well,  that's  not  so  awfully  soon.  But  who  will 
take  your  place  here?  However  in  the  world  would 
your  father  get  along  without  you — and  Snooky  and 
Howard?" 

"Aunt  Dodd  is  going  to  come." 

"Sudden  enough,"  said  Condy,  "but  it  is  a  great 
thing  for  you,  Blix,  and  I'm  mighty  glad  for  you. 
Your  future  is  all  cut  out  for  you  now.  Of  course  your 
aunt,  if  she's  so  fond  of  you  and  hasn't  any  children,  will 
leave  you  everything — maybe  settle  something  on  you 
right  away;  and  you'll  marry  some  one  of  those  New 
York  chaps,  and  be  great  big  people  before  you 
know  it." 

"The  idea,  Condy!"  she  protested.  "No;  I'm 
going  there  to  study  medicine.  Oh,  you  don't  know 
how  enthusiastic  I  am  over  the  idea !  I've  bought 
some  of  the  first-year  books  already,  and  have  been 
reading  them.  Really,  Condy,  they  are  even  better 
than  'Many  Inventions.'" 


BLIX  109 

"Wish  I  could  get  east,"  muttered  Condy  gloomily. 
Blix  forgot  her  own  good  fortune  upon  the  instant. 

"I  do  so  wish  you  could,  Condy!"  she  exclaimed. 
"You  are  too  good  for  a  Sunday  supplement.  /  know 
it  and  you  know  it,  and  I've  heard  ever  so  many  people 
who  have  read  your  stories  say  the  same  thing.  You 
could  spend  twenty  years  working  as  you  are  now,  and 
at  the  end  what  would  you  be?  Just  an  assistant 
editor  of  a  Sunday  supplement,  and  still  in  the  same 
place;  and  worse,  you'd  come  to  be  contented  with 
that,  and  think  you  were  only  good  for  that  and  nothing 
better.  You've  got  it  in  you,  Condy,  to  be  a  great  story 
teller.  I  believe  in  you,  and  I've  every  confidence  in 
you.  But  just  as  long  as  you  stay  here  and  are  willing 
to  do  hack  work,  just  so  long  you  will  be  a  hack  writer. 
You  must  break  from  it;  you  must  get  away.  I  know 
you  have  a  good  time  here;  but  there  are  so  many 
things  better  than  that  and  more  worth  while.  You 
ought  to  make  up  your  mind  to  get  east,  and  work  for 
that  and  nothing  else.  I  know  you  want  to  go,  but 
wanting  isn't  enough.  Enthusiasm  without  energy 
isn't  enough.  You  have  enthusiasm,  Condy;  but  you 
must  have  energy.  You  must  be  willing  to  give 
up  things;  you  must  make  up  your  mind  that  you 
will  go  east,  and  then  set  your  teeth  together  and  do 
it.  Oh,  I  love  a  man  that  can  do  that — make  up  his 
mind  to  a  thing  and  then  put  it  through !" 

Condy  watched  her  as  she  talked,  her  brown-black 
eyes  coruscating,  her  cheeks  glowing,  her  small  hands 
curled  into  round  pink  fists. 

"Blix,  you're  splendid!"  he  exclaimed;  "you're 
fine !  You  could  put  life  into  a  dead  man.  You're  a 
girl  that  would  be  the  making  of  a  man.  By  Jove, 
you'd  back  a  man  up,  wouldn't  you?  You'd  stand  by 
him  till  the  last  ditch.  Of  course,"  he  went  on  after  a 


no  BLIX 

pause — "of  course  I  ought  to  go  to  New  York. 
Blix,  suppose  I  went — well,  then  what  ?  It  isn't  as 
though  I  had  an  income  of  my  own,  or  rich  aunt. 
Suppose  I  didn't  find  something  to  do — and  the  chances 
are  that  I  wouldn't  for  three  or  four  months — what 
would  I  live  on  in  the  meanwhile?  'What  would  the 
robin  do  then,  poor  thing?'  I'm  a  poor  young  man, 
Miss  Bessemer,  and  I've  got  to  eat.  No;  my  chance 
is  'to  be  discovered'  by  a  magazine  or  a  publishing 
house  or  somebody,  and  get  a  bid  of  some  kind." 

"Well,  there  is  the  Centennial  Company.  They  have 
taken  an  interest  in  you,  Condy.  You  must  follow 
that  right  up  and  keep  your  name  before  them  all  the 
time.  Have  you  sent  them  'A  Victory  Over  Death" 
yet?" 

Condy  sat  down  to  his  eggs  and  coffee  the  next  morn 
ing  in  the  hotel,  harried  with  a  certain  sense  of  depres 
sion  and  disappointment  for  which  he  could  assign  no 
cause.  Nothing  seemed  to  interest  him.  The  news 
paper  was  dull.  He  could  look  forward  to  no  pleasure 
in  his  day's  work.  And  what  was  the  matter  with  the 
sun  that  morning?  As  he  walked  down  to  the  office 
he  noted  no  cloud  in  the  sky,  but  the  brightness  was 
gone  from  the  day.  He  sat  down  to  his  desk  and 
attacked  his  work,  but  "copy"  would  not  come.  The 
sporting  editor  and  his  inane  jokes  harassed  him  beyond 
expression.  Just  the  sight  of  the  clipping  editor's  back 
was  an  irritation.  The  office-boy  was  a  mere  incentive 
to  profanity.  There  was  no  spring  in  Condy  that 
morning,  no  elasticity,  none  of  his  natural  buoyancy. 
As  the  day  wore  on,  his  ennui  increased;  his  luncheon 
at  the  club  was  tasteless;  tobacco  had  lost  its  charm. 
He  ordered  a  cocktail  in  the  wine-room,  and  put  it 
aside  with  a  wry  face. 

The  afternoon  was  one  long  tedium.     At  every  hour 


BLIX  in 

he  flung  his  pencil  down,  utterly  unable  to  formulate 
the  next  sentence  of  his  article,  and,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  gazed  gloomily  out  of  the  window  over  the 
wilderness  of  roofs — grimy,  dirty,  ugly  roofs  that  spread 
out  below.  He  craved  diversion,  amusement,  excite 
ment.  Something  there  was  that  he  wanted  with  all 
his  heart  and  soul,  yet  he  was  quite  unable  to  say  what 
it  was.  Something  was  gone  from  him  to-day  that  he 
had  possessed  yesterday,  and  he  knew  he  would  not 
regain  it  on  the  morrow,  nor  the  next  day,  nor  the  day 
after  that.  What  was  it?  He  could  not  say.  For 
half  an  hour  he  imagined  he  was  going  to  be  sick.  His 
mother  was  not  to  be  at  home  that  evening,  and  Condy 
dined  at  his  club  in  the  hopes  of  finding  some  one  with 
whom  he  could  go  to  the  theatre  later  on  in  the  evening. 
Sargeant  joined  him  over  his  coffee  and  cigarette,  but 
declined  to  go  with  him  to  the  theatre. 

"Another  game  on  to-night?"  asked  Condy. 

"  I  suppose  so,  "  admitted  the  other. 

"•I  guess  I'll  join  you  to-night,"  said  Condy.  "I've 
had  the  blue  devils  since  morning,  and  I've  got  to  have 
something  to  drive  them  off.  " 

"Don't  let  me  urge  you,  you  know,"  returned 
Sargeant. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  Condy  assured  him.  "My 
time's  about  up,  anyway.  " 

An  hour  later,  just  as  he,  Sargeant,  and  the  other  men 
of  their  "set"  were  in  the  act  of  going  upstairs  to  the 
card-rooms,  a  hall-boy  gave  Condy  a  note,  at  that 
moment  brought  by  a  messenger,  who  was  waiting  for 
an  answer.  It  was  from  Blix.  She  wrote: 

"Don't  you  want  to  come  up  and  play  cards 
with  me  to-night  ?  We  haven't  had  a  game  in  over  a 
week." 


112 


BLIX 


"How  did  she  know?"  thought  Condy  to  himself — 
"how  could  she  tell ? "  Aloud,  he  said : 

"I  can't  join  you  fellows,  after  all.  'Despatch  from 
the  managing  editor.'  Some  special  detail  or  other." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  previous  evening  Condy 
felt  his  spirits  rise  as  he  set  off  toward  the  Washington 
Street  hill.  But  though  he  and  Blix  spent  as  merry  an 
evening  as  they  remembered  in  a  long  time,  his  nameless, 
formless  irritation  returned  upon  him  almost  as  soon  as 
he  had  bade  her  good-night.  It  stayed  with  him  all 
through  the  week,  and  told  upon  his  work.  As  a  result, 
three  of  his  articles  were  thrown  out  by  the  editor. 

"We  can't  run  such  rot  as  that  in  the  paper,"  the 
chief  had  said.  "Can't  you  give  us  a  story  ? " 

"  Oh,  I've  got  a  kind  of  a  yarn  you  can  run  if  you  like,  " 
answered  Condy,  his  week's  depression  at  its  very 
lowest. 

"A  Victory  Over  Death"  was  published  in  the  follow 
ing  Sunday's  supplement  of  The  Daily  Times,  with 
illustrations  by  one  of  the  staff  artists.  It  attracted 
not  the  least  attention. 

Just  before  he  went  to  bed  the  Sunday  evening  of  its 
appearance,  Condy  read  it  over  again  for  the  last  time. 

"It's  a  rotten  failure,"  he  muttered  gloomily  as  he 
cast  the  paper  from  him.  "Simple  drivel.  I  wonder 
what  Blix  will  think  of  it.  I  wonder  if  I  amount  to  a 
hill  of  beans.  I  wonder  what  she  wants  to  go  east  for, 
anyway," 


IX 


THE  old-fashioned  Union  Street  cable  car,  with  its 
low,  comfortable  outside  seats,  put  Blix  and  Condy 
down  just  inside  the  Presidio  Government  Reservation. 
Condy  asked  a  direction  of  a  sentry  nursing  his  Krag- 
Jorgensen  at  the  terminus  of  the  track,  and  then  with 
Blix  set  off  down  the  long  boardwalk  through  the  tunnel 
of  overhanging  evergreens. 

The  day  could  not  have  been  more  desirable.  It  was  a 
little  after  ten  of  a  Monday  morning,  Condy's  weekly 
holiday.  The  air  was  neither  cool  nor  warm,  efferves 
cent  merely,  brisk  and  full  of  the  smell  of  grass  and  of 
the  sea.  The  sky  was  a  speckless  sheen  of  pale  blue. 
To  their  right,  and  not  far  off,  was  the  bay,  blue  as 
indigo.  Alcatraz  seemed  close  at  hand;  beyond  was 
the  enormous  green,  red  and  purple  pyramid  of 
Tamalpais  climbing  out  of  the  water,  head  and  shoul 
ders  above  the  little  foothills,  and  looking  out  to  the 
sea  and  to  the  west. 

The  reservation  itself  was  delightful.  There  were 
rows  of  the  officers'  houses,  all  alike,  drawn  up  in  lines 
like  an  assembly  of  the  staff ;  there  were  huge  barracks, 
most  like  college  dormitories;  and  on  their  porches 
enlisted  men  in  shirt  sleeves  and  overalls  were  cleaning 
saddles  and  polishing  the  brass  of  head-stalls  and  bridles, 
whistling  the  whiles  or  smoking  corncob  pipes.  Here  on 
the  parade-ground  a  soldier,  his  coat  and  vest  removed, 
was  batting  grounders  and  flies  to  a  half-dozen  of  his 
fellows.  Over  by  the  stables,  strings  of  horses,  all  of  the 
same  colour,  were  being  curried  and  cleaned.  A  young 


ii4  BLIX 

lieutenant  upon  a  bicycle  spun  silently  past.  An  officer 
came  from  his  front  gate,  his  coat  unbuttoned  and  a 
briar  in  his  teeth.  The  walks  and  roads  were  flanked 
with  lines  of  black-painted  cannon  balls ;  inverted  pieces 
of  abandoned  ordnance  stood  at  corners.  From  a  dis 
tance  came  the  mellow  snarling  of  a  bugle. 

Blix  and  Condy  had  planned  a  long  walk  for  that  day. 
They  were  to  go  out  through  the  Presidio  Reservation, 
past  the  barracks  and  officers'  quarters,  and  on  to  the 
old  fort  at  the  Golden  Gate.  Here  they  would  turn  and 
follow  the  shore-line  for  a  ways,  then  strike  inland  across 
the  hills  for  a  short  half-mile,  and  regain  the  city  and  the 
street-car  lines  by  way  of  the  golf-links.  Condy  had 
insisted  upon  wearing  his  bicycle  outfit  for  the  occasion, 
and,  moreover,  carried  a  little  satchel,  which,  he  said, 
contained  a  pair  of  shoes. 

But  Blix  was  as  sweet  as  a  rose  that  morning,  all  in 
tailor-made  black  but  for  the  inevitable  bands  of  white 
satin  wrapped  high  and  tight  about  her  neck.  The 
St.  Bernard's  dog  collar  did  duty  as  a  belt.  She  had 
disdained  a  veil,  and  her  yellow  hair  was  already  blowing 
about  her  smooth  pink  cheeks.  She  walked  at  his  side, 
her  step  as  firm  and  solid  as  his  own,  her  round,  strong 
arms  swinging,  her  little  brown  eyes  shining  with  good 
spirits  and  vigour,  and  the  pure,  clean  animal  joy  of 
being  alive  on  that  fine  cool  Western  morning.  She 
talked  almost  incessantly.  She  was  positively  garrulous. 
She  talked  about  the  fine  day  that  it  was,  about  the 
queer  new  forage  caps  of  the  soldiers,  about  the  bare 
green  hills  of  the  reservation,  about  the  little  cemetery 
they  passed  just  beyond  the  limits  of  the  barracks,  about 
a  rabbit  she  saw,  and  about  the  quail  they  both  heard 
whistling  and  calling  in  the  hollows  under  the  bushes. 

Condy  walked  at  her  side  in  silence,  yet  no  less  happy 
than  she,  smoking  his  pipe  and  casting  occasional  glances 


BLIX  115 

at  a  great  ship — a  four-master  that  was  being  towed 
out  toward  the  Golden  Gate.  At  every  moment  and  at 
every  turn  they  noted  things  that  interested  them,  and 
to  which  they  called  each  other's  attention. 

"Look,  Blix!" 

"Oh,  Condy,  look  at  that !" 

They  were  soon  out  of  the  miniature  city  of  the  post, 
and  held  on  down  through  the  low  reach  of  tulles  and 
sand  dunes  that  stretch  between  the  barracks  and  the 
old  red  fort. 

"Look,  Condy!"  said  Blix.  "What's  that  building 
down  there  on  the  shore  of  the  bay — the  one  with  the 
flagstaff?" 

"I  think  that  must  be  the  life-boat  station." 

"I  wonder  if  we  could  go  down  and  visit  it.  I  think 
it  would  be  good  fun. " 

"  Idea  ! "  exclaimed  Condy. 

The  station  was  close  at  hand.  To  reach  it  they  had 
but  to  leave  the  crazy  boardwalk  that  led  on  toward 
the  fort,  and  cross  a  few  hundred  yards  of  sand  dune. 
Condy  opened  the  gate  that  broke  the  line  of  evergreen 
hedge  around  the  little  two-story  house,  and  promptly 
unchained  a  veritable  pandemonium  of  dogs. 

Inside,  the  place  was  not  without  a  certain  charm  of 
its  own.  A  brick  walk,  bordered  with  shells,  led  to  the 
front  of  the  station,  which  gave  directly  upon  the  bay; 
a  little  well-kept  lawn  opened  to  right  and  left,  and  six 
or  eight  gaily  painted  old  rowboats  were  set  about, 
half  filled  with  loam  in  which  fuchsias,  geraniums, 
and  mignonettes  were  flowering.  A  cat  or  two  dozed 
upon  the  window-sills  in  the  sun.  Upon  a  sort  of  porch 
overhead,  two  of  the  crew  paced  up  and  down  in  a 
manner  that  at  once  suggested  the  poop.  Here  and 
there  was  a  gleam  of  highly  polished  red  copper  or 
brass  trimmings.  The  bay  was  within  two  steps  of 


n6  BLIX 

the  front  door,  while  a  little  farther  down  the  beach 
was  the  house  where  the  surf -boat  was  kept,  and  the 
long  runway  leading  down  from  it  to  the  water.  Condy 
rapped  boldly  at  the  front  door.  It  was  opened  by 
Captain  Jack. 

Captain  Jack,  and  no  other;  only  now  he  wore  a 
blue  sweater  and  a  leather-visored  cap,  with  the  letters 
U.  S.  L.  B.  S.  around  the  band. 

Not  an  instant  was  given  them  for  preparation.  The 
thing  had  happened  with  the  abruptness  of  a  trans 
formation  scene  at  a  theatre.  Condy's  knock  had 
evoked  a  situation.  Speech  was  stricken  from  their 
mouths.  For  a  moment  they  were  bereft  even  of  action, 
and  stood  there  on  the  threshold,  staring  open-mouthed 
and  open-eyed  at  the  sudden  reappearance  of  their 
"Matrimonial  Object."  Condy  was  literally  dumb; 
in  the  end  it  was  Blix  who  tided  them  over  the  crisis. 

"We  were  just  going  by — just  taking  a  walk,"  she 
explained,  "and  we  thought  we'd  like  to  see  the  station. 
Is  it  all  right  ?  Can  we  look  around  ?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  assented  the  Captain  with  great 
cordiality.  "Come  right  in.  This  is  visitors'  day. 
You  just  happened  to  hit  it;  only  it's  mighty  few 
visitors  we  ever  have,"  he  added. 

While  Condy  was  registering  for  himself  and  Blix, 
they  managed  to  exchange  a  lightning  glance.  It  was 
evident  the  Captain  did  not  recognize  them.  The 
situation  readjusted  itself — even  promised  to  be  of 
extraordinary  interest.  And  for  that  matter  it  made 
little  difference  whether  the  Captain  remembered  them 
or  not. 

"No,  we  don't  get  many  visitors,"  the  Captain  went 
on,  as  he  led  them  out  of  the  station  and  down  the 
small  gravel  walk  to  the  house  where  the  surf-boat 
was  kept.  "This  is  a  quiet  station.  People  don't 


BLIX  117 

fetch  out  this  way  very  often,  and  we're  not  called 
out  very  often  either.  We're  an  inside  post,  you  see, 
and  usually  we  don't  get  a  call  unless  the  sea's  so  high 
that  the  Cliff  House  Station  can't  launch  their  boat. 
So,  you  see,  we  don't  go  out  much;  but  when  we  do,  it 
means  business  with  a  great  big  B.  Now  this  here, 
you  see,"  continued  the  Captain,  rolling  back  the  sliding 
doors  of  the  house,  "is  the  surf -boat.  By  the  way, 
let's  see;  I  ain't  just  caught  your  names  yet." 

"Well,  my  name's  Rivers,"  said  Condy,  "and  this  is 
Miss  Bessemer.  We're  both  from  the  city." 

"Happy  to  know  you,  sir;  happy  to  know  you,  miss," 
he  returned,  pulling  off  his  cap.  "My  name's  Hoskins, 
but  you  just  call  me  Captain  Jack.  I'm  so  used  to  it 
that  I  don't  kind  of  answer  to  the  other.  Well,  now, 
Miss  Bessemer,  this  here's  the  surf -boat;  she's  self- 
rightin',  self-bailin',  she  can't  capsize,  and  if  I  was 
to  tell  you  how  many  thousands  of  dollars  she  cost,  you 
wouldn't  believe  me." 

Condy  and  Blix  spent  a  delightful  half-hour  in  the 
boat-house  while  Captain  Jack  explained  and  illustrated, 
and  told  them  anecdotes  of  wrecks,  escapes,  and  rescues 
till  they  held  their  breaths  like  ten-year-olds. 

It  did  not  take  Condy  long  to  know  that  he  had 
discovered  what  the  story-teller  so  often  tells  of  but  so 
seldom  finds,  and  what,  for  want  of  a  better  name, 
he  elects  to  call  "a  character." 

Captain  Jack  had  been  everywhere,  had  seen  every 
thing,  and  had  done  most  of  the  things  worth  doing, 
including  a  great  many  things  that  he  had  far  better 
have  left  undone.  But  on  this  latter  point  the  Captain 
seemed  to  be  innocently  and  completely  devoid  of  a 
moral  sense  of  right  and  wrong.  It  was  quite  evident 
that  he  saw  no  matter  for  conscience  in  the  smuggling 
of  Chinamen  across  the  Canadian  border  at  thirty 


n8  BLIX 

dollars  a  head — a  venture  in  which  he  had  had  the 
assistance  of  the  prodigal  son  of  an  American  divine  of 
international  renown.  The  trade  to  Peruvian  insurgents 
of  condemned  rifles  was  to  be  regretted  only  because 
the  ring  manipulating  it  was  broken  up.  The  appropria 
tion  of  a  schooner  in  the  harbour  of  Callao  was  a  story 
in  itself;  while  the  robbery  of  thirty  thousand  dollars' 
worth  of  sea-otter  skins  from  a  Russian  trading-post  in 
Alaska,  accomplished  chiefly  through  the  agency  of  a 
barrel  of  rum  manufactured  from  sugar-cane,  was  a 
veritable  achievement. 

He  had  been  born,  so  he  told  them,  in  Winchester, 
in  England,  and — Heaven  save  the  mark ! — had  been 
brought  up  with  a  view  of  taking  orders.  For  some  time 
he  was  a  choir-boy  in  the  great  Winchester  Cathedral; 
then,  while  yet  a  lad,  had  gone  to  sea.  He  had 
been  boat-steerer  on  a  New  Bedford  whaler,  and  struck 
his  first  whale  when  only  sixteen.  He  had  filibustered 
down  to  Chili;  had  acted  as  ice  pilot  on  an  Arctic  relief 
expedition;  had  captained  a  crew  of  Chinamen  shark- 
fishing  in  Magdalena  Bay,  and  had  been  nearly  murdered 
by  his  men;  had  been  a  deep-sea  diver,  and  had  burst 
his  ear-drums  at  the  business,  so  that  now  he  could 
blow  tobacco  smoke  out  of  his  ears;  he  had  been  ship 
wrecked  in  the  Gilberts,  fought  with  the  Seris  on  the 
lower  California  Islands,  sold  champagne — made  from 
rock  candy,  effervescent  salts,  and  Reisling  wine — to 
the  Coreans,  had  dreamed  of  ''holding  up"  a  Cunard 
liner,  and  had  ridden  on  the  Strand  in  a  hansom  with 
William  Ewart  Gladstone.  But  the  one  thing  of  which 
he  was  proud,  the  one  picture  of  his  life  he  most  delighted 
to  recall,  was  himself  as  manager  of  a  negro  minstrel 
troupe,  in  a  hired  drum-major's  uniform,  marching 
down  the  streets  of  Sacramento,  at  the  head  of  the 
brass  band,  in  burnt  cork  and  regimentals. 


BLIX 


119 


"The  star  of  the  troupe,"  he  told  them,  "was  the 
lady  with  the  iron  jore.  We  busted  in  Stockton,  and 
she  gave  me  her  diamonds  to  pawn.  I  pawned  'em, 
and  kept  back  something  in  the  hand  for  myself  and 
hooked  it  to  San  Francisco.  Strike  me  straight  if  she 
didn't  follow  me,  that  iron-jored  piece;  met  me  one 
day  in  front  of  the  Bush  Street  Theatre  and  horse 
whipped  me  properly.  Now  just  think  of  that !" 
and  he  laughed  as  though  it  was  the  best  kind  of  a  joke. 

"But,"  hazarded  Blix,  "don't  you  find  it  rather  dull 
out  here — lonesome?  I  should  think  you  would  want 
to  have  some  one  with  you  to  keep  you  company — to 
— to  do  your  cooking  for  you. " 

But  Condy,  ignoring  her  diplomacy  and  thinking  only 
of  possible  stories,  blundered  off  upon  another  track. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you've  led  such  a  life  of  action,  I 
should  think  this  station  would  be  pretty  dull  for  you. 
How  did  you  happen  to  choose  it?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  answered  the  Captain,  leaning 
against  the  smooth  white  flank  of  the  surf -boat,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  "I'm  lying  low  just  now.  I  got 
into  a  scrape  down  at  Libertad,  in  Mexico,  that  made 
talk,  and  I'm  waiting  for  that  to  die  down  some.  You 
see,  it  was  this  way." 

Mindful  of  their  experience  with  the  mate  of  the 
whaleback,  Condy  and  Blix  were  all  attention  in  an 
instant.  Blix  sat  down  upon  an  upturned  box,  her 
elbows  on  her  knees,  leaning  forward,  her  little  eyes 
fixed  and  shining  with  interest  and  expectation ;  Condy, 
the  story-teller  all  alive  and  vibrant  in  him,  stood  at 
her  elbow,  smoking  cigarette  after  cigarette,  his  fingers 
dancing  with  excitement  and  animation  as  the  Captain 
spoke. 

And  then  it  was  that  Condy  and  Blix,  in  that  isolated 
station,  the  bay  lapping  at  the  shore  within  ear-shot, 


120  BLIX 

in  that  atmosphere  redolent  of  paint  and  oakum  and 
of  seaweed  decaying  upon  the  beach  outside,  first  heard 
the  story  of  "In  Defiance  of  Authority." 

Captain  Jack  began  it  with  his  experience  as  a 
restaurant  keeper  during  the  boom  days  in  Seattle, 
Washington.  He  told  them  how  he  was  the  cashier  of 
a  dining-saloon  whose  daily  net  profits  exceeded  eight 
hundred  dollars;  how  its  proprietor  suddenly  died,  and 
how  he,  Captain  Jack,  continued  the  management  of 
the  restaurant  pending  a  settlement  of  the  proprietor's 
affairs  and  an  appearance  of  heirs ;  how  in  the  confusion 
and  excitement  of  the  boom  no  settlement  was  ever 
made;  and  how,  no  heirs  appearing,  he  assumed  charge 
of  the  establishment  himself,  paying  bills,  making  con 
tracts,  and  signing  notes,  until  he  came  to  consider  the 
business  and  all  its  enormous  profits  as  his  own;  and 
how  at  last,  when  the  restaurant  was  burned,  he 
found  himself  some  forty  thousand  dollars  ' '  ahead  of 
the  game." 

Then  he  told  them  of  the  strange  club  of  the  place, 
called  "The  Exiles,"  made  up  chiefly  of  "younger  sons" 
of  English  and  British-Canadian  families,  every  member 
possessed  of  a  "past"  more  or  less  disreputable;  men 
who  had  left  their  country  for  their  country's  good,  and 
for  their  family's  peace  of  mind — adventurers,  wan 
derers,  soldiers  of  fortune,  gentlemen-vagabonds,  men 
of  hyphenated  names  and  even  noble  birth,  whose 
appellations  were  avowedly  aliases.  He  told  them  of 
his  meeting  with  Billy  Isham,  one  of  the  club's  directors, 
and  of  the  happy-go-lucky,  reckless,  unpractical  char 
acter  of  the  man;  of  their  acquaintance,  intimacy,  and 
subsequent  partnership;  of  how  the  filibustering  project 
was  started  with  Captain  Jack's  forty  thousand,  and 
the  never-to-be-forgotten  interview  in  San  Francisco 
with  Sefiora  Estrada,  the  agent  of  the  insurgents;  of  the 


BLIX  121 

incident  of  her  calling-card — how  she  tore  it  in  two 
and  gave  one  half  to  Isham;  of  their  outfitting,  and 
the  broken  sextant  that  was  to  cause  their  ultimate 
discomfiture  and  disaster,  and  of  the  voyage  to  the 
rendezvous  on  a  Panama  liner. 

"Strike  me!"  continued  Captain  Jack,  "you  should 
have  seen  Billy  Isham  on  that  Panama  dough-dish;  a 
passenger  ship  she  was,  and  Billy  was  the  life  of  her  from 
stem  to  stern-post.  There  was  a  church  pulpit  aboard 
that  they  were  taking  down  to  Mazatlan  for  some  chapel 
or  other,  and  this  here  pulpit  was  lashed  on  deck  aft. 
Well,  Billy  had  been  most  kinds  of  a  fool  in  his  life,  and 
amongst  others  a  play-actor;  called  hisself  Gaston 
Maunderville,  and  was  clean  daft  on  his  knowledge  of 
Shakespeare  and  his  own  power  of  interpretin'  the  hidden 
meanin'  of  the  lines.  I  ain't  never  going  to  forgit  the 
day  he  gave  us  Portia's  speech.  We  were  just  under 
the  tropic,  and  the  day  was  a  scorcher.  There  was 
mostly  men  folk  aboard,  and  we  lay  around  the  deck 
in  our  pajamas,  while  Billy — Gaston  Maunderville, 
dressed  in  striped  red-and- white  pajamas — clum  up  in 
that  bally  pulpit,  with  the  ship's  Shakespeare  in  his 
hands,  an'  let  us  have — 'The  quality  o'  mercy  isn't 
strained;  it  droppeth  as  the  genteel  dew  from  heavun.' 
Laugh,  I  tell  you  I  was  sore  with  it.  Lord,  how  we 
guyed  him !  An'  the  more  we  guyed  and  the  more  we 
laughed,  the  more  serious  he  got  and  the  madder  he 
grew.  He  said  he  was  interpretin'  the  hidden  meanin' 
of  the  lines." 

And  so  the  Captain  ran  through  that  wild,  fiery  tale 
— of  fighting  and  loving,  buccaneering  and  conspiring; 
mandolins  tinkling,  knives  clicking;  oaths  mingling 
with  sonnets,  and  spilled  wine  with  spilled  blood.  He 
told  them  of  Isham's  knife  duel  with  the  Mexican 
lieutenant,  their  left  wrists  lashed  together;  of  the 


122  BLIX 

"battle  of  thirty"  in  the  pitch  dark  of  the  Custom 
House  cellar;  of  Sefiora  Estrada's  love  for  Isham;  and 
all  the  roll  and  plunge  of  action  that  make  up  the  story 
of  "In  Defiance  of  Authority." 

At  the  end,  Blix's  little  eyes  were  snapping  like  sparks ; 
Condy's  face  was  flaming,  his  hands  were  cold,  and  he 
was  shifting  his  weight  from  foot  to  foot,  like  an  excited 
thoroughbred  horse. 

"Heavens  and  earth,  what  a  yarn!"  he  exclaimed 
almost  in  a  whisper. 

Blix  drew  a  long,  tremulous  breath  and  sat  back  upon 
the  upturned  box,  looking  around  her  as  though  she  had 
but  that  moment  been  awakened. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Captain,  rolling  a  cigarette. 
"Yes,  sir,  those  were  great  days.  Get  down  there 
around  the  line  in  those  little,  out-o'-the-way  republics 
along  the  South  American  coast,  and  things  happen  to 
you.  You  hold  a  man's  life  in  the  crook  of  your  fore 
finger,  an'  nothing's  done  by  halves.  If  you  hate  a 
man,  you  lay  awake  nights  biting  your  mattress,  just 
thinking  how  you  hate  him;  an'  if  you  love  a  woman — 
good  Lord,  how  you  do  love  her!" 

"But — but!"  exclaimed  Condy,  "I  don't  see  how 
you  can  want  to  do  anything  else.  Why,  you're  living 
sixty  to  the  minute  when  you're  playing  a  game  like 
that!" 

"Oh,  I  ain't  dead  yet!"  answered  the  Captain.  "I 
got  a  few  schemes  left  that  I  could  get  fun  out  of." 

"How  can  you  wait  a  minute!"  exclaimed  Blix 
breathlessly.  "Why  don't  you  get  a  ship  right  away — 
to-morrow — and  go  right  off  on  some  other  adventure  ? " 

"Well,  I  can't  just  now,"  returned  the  Captain, 
blowing  the  smoke  from  his  cigarette  through  his  ears. 
"There's  a  good  many  reasons;  one  of  'em  is  that  I've 
just  been  married." 


X 


"MuM — MAR — MARRIED!"  gasped  Condy,  swallowing 
something  in  his  throat. 

Blix  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Just  been  married  I "  she  repeated,  a  little  frightened. 
"Why — why— why,  how  delightful!" 

"Yes — yes,"  mumbled  Condy.  "How  delightful.  I 
congratulate  you ! " 

"  Come  in — come  back  to  the  station, "  said  the  Captain 
jovially,  "and  I'll  introduce  you  to  m'  wife.  We  were 
married  only  last  Sunday." 

"Why,  yes — yes,  of  course,  we'd  be  delighted," 
vociferated  the  two  conspirators  a  little  hysterically. 

"She's  a  mighty  fine  little  woman,"  declared  the 
Captain,  as  he  rolled  the  door  of  the  boat-house  to  its 
place  and  preceded  them  up  the  gravel  walk  to  the 
station. 

"Of  course  she  is,"  responded  Blix.  Behind  Captain 
Jack's  back  she  fixed  Condy  with  a  wide-eyed  look,  and 
nudged  him  fiercely  with  an  elbow  to  recall  him  to  him 
self;  for  Condy 's  wits  were  scattered  like  a  flock  of 
terrified  birds,  and  he  was  gazing  blankly  at  the  Captain's 
coat  collar  with  a  vacant,  maniacal  smile. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Condy  ! "  she  had  time  to  whisper 
before  they  arrived  in  the  hallway  of  the  station. 

But  fortunately  they  were  allowed  a  minute  or  so  to 
recover  themselves  and  prepare  for  what  was  coming. 
Captain  Jack  ushered  them  into  what  was  either  the 
parlour,  office,  or  sitting-room  of  the  station,  and  left 
them  with  the  words: 

123 


i24  BLIX 

"Just  make  yourselves  comfortable  here,  an'  I'll  go 
fetch  the  little  woman.  " 

No  sooner  had  he  gone  than  the  two  turned  to  each 
other. 

"Well!" 

"WeUl" 

"We're  in  for  it  now.  " 

"But  we  must  see  it  through,  Condy;  act  just  as 
natural  as  you  can,  and  we're  all  right.  " 

"But  supposing  she  recognizes  us?" 

"Supposing  she  does — what  then?  How  are  they  to 
know  that  we  wrote  the  letters  ? " 

"  Sh,  Blix,  not  so  loud  !  They  know  by  now  that  they 
didn't." 

"But  it  seems  that  it  hasn't  made  any  difference  to 
them;  they  are  married.  And  besides,  they  wouldn't 
speak  to  us  about  putting  'personals '  in  the  paper.  They 
would  never  let  anybody  know  that.  " 

"Do  you  suppose  they  could  possibly  suspect ? " 

"  I'm  sure  they  couldn't.  " 

"Here  they  come. " 

"Keep  perfectly  calm,  and  we're  saved.  " 

"Suppose  it  isn't  K.  D.  B.,  after  all?" 

But  it  was,  of  course,  and  she  recognized  them  in  an 
instant.  She  and  the  Captain — the  latter  all  grins — 
came  in  from  the  direction  of  the  kitchen,  K.  D.  B. 
wearing  a  neat  blue  calico  gown  and  an  apron  that  was 
really  a  marvel  of  cleanliness  and  starch. 

"Kitty!"  exclaimed  Captain  Jack,  seized  again  with 
an  unexplainable  mirth,  "here's  some  young  folks  come 
out  to  see  the  place,  an'  I  want  you  to  know  'em.  Mr. 
Rivers,  this  is  m'  wife,  Kitty,  and — lessee,  miss,  I  don't 
rightly  remember  your  name." 

"  Bessemer  ! "  exclaimed  Condy  and  Blix  in  a  breath. 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  K.  D.  B.,  "vou  were  in  the  restau- 


BLIX  125 

rant  the  night  that  the  Captain  and  I — I — that  is  — yes, 
I'm  quite  sure  I've  seen  you  before. "  She  turned  from 
one  to  the  other,  beginning  to  blush  furiously. 

"Yes,  yes,  in  Luna's  restaurant,  wasn't  it?"  said 
Condy  desperately.  "It  seems  to  me  I  do  just  barely 
remember. " 

"And  wasn't  the  Captain  there?"  Blix  ventured. 

"I  forgot  my  stick,  I  remember,"  continued  Condy. 
"I  came  back  for  it ;  and  just  as  I  was  going  out,  it  seems 
to  me  I  saw  you  two  at  a  table  near  the  door. " 

He  thought  it  best  to  allow  their  "Matrimonial 
Objects"  to  believe  he  had  not  seen  them  before. 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  were  there, "  answered  K.  D.  B.  tactfully. 
"We  dine  there  almost  every  Monday  night. " 

Blix  guessed  that  K.  D.  B.  would  prefer  to  have  the 
real  facts  of  the  situation  ignored,  and  determined  she 
should  have  the  chance  to  change  the  conversation  if 
she  wished. 

"What  a  delicious  supper  one  has  there  ! "  she  said. 

"Can't  say  I  like  Mexican  cooking  myself,"  answered 
K.  D.  B.,  forgetting  that  they  dined  there  every  Monday 
night.  "Plain  United  States  is  good  enough  for  me.  " 

Suddenly  Captain  Jack  turned  abruptly  to  Condy, 
exclaiming:  "Oh,  you  was  the  chap  that  called  the 
picture  of  that  schooner  a  barkentine.  " 

"Yes;  wasn't  that  a  barkentine?"  he  answered  inno 
cently. 

"Barkentine  your  eye!"  spluttered  the  Captain. 
"Why,  that  was  a  schooner  as  plain  as  a  pie  plate. " 

But  ten  minutes  later  the  ordeal  was  over,  and  Blix 
and  Condy,  once  more  breathing  easy,  were  on  their 
walk  again.  The  Captain  and  K.  D.  B.  had  even 
accompanied  them  to  the  gate  of  the  station,  and  had 
strenuously  urged  them  to  "come  in  and  see  them 
again  the  next  time  they  were  out  that  way." 


126  BLIX 

"Married  !"  murmured  Condy,  putting  both  hands  to 
his  head.  "We've  done  it;  we've  done  it  now.  " 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  declared  Blix,  a  little  defiantly. 
"I  think  it's  all  right.  You  can  see  the  Captain  is  in 
love  with  her,  and  she  with  him.  No,  we've  nothing  to 
reproach  ourselves  with." 

"But — but — but  so  sudden!"  whispered  Condy,  all 
aghast.  "That's  what  makes  me  faint — the  suddenness 
of  it." 

"It  shows  how  much  they  are  in  love,  how — how 
readily  they — adapted  themselves  to  each  other.  No,, 
it's  all  right." 

"They  seemed  to  like  us — actually.  " 

"Well,  they  had  better — if  they  knew  the  truth. 
Without  us  they  never  would  have  met.  " 

"  They  both  asked  us  to  come  out  and  see  them  again  ^ 
did  you  notice  that  ?  Let's  do  it,  Blix, "  Condy  suddenly 
exclaimed;  "let's  get  to  know  them." 

"Of  course  we  must.  Wouldn't  it  be  fun  to  call  on 
them — to  get  regularly  acquainted  with  them!" 

"They  might  ask  us  to  dinner  some  time. " 

"And  think  of  the  stories  he  could  tell  you !" 

They  enthused  immediately  upon  this  subject,  both 
talking  excitedly  at  the  same  time,  going  over  the 
details  of  the  Captain's  yarns,  recalling  the  incidents  ta 
each  other." 

"Fancy!"  exclaimed  Condy — "fancy  Billy  Isham  in 
his  pajamas,  red-and-white  stripes,  reading  Shakespeare 
from  that  pulpit  on  board  the  ship,  and  the  other  men 
guying  him !  Isn't  that  a  scene  for  you  ?  Can't  you 
just  see  it?" 

"I  wonder  if  the  Captain  wasn't  making  all  those 
things  up  as  he  went  along.  He  don't  seem  to  have  any 
sense  of  right  and  wrong  at  all.  He  might  have  been 
lying,  Condy." 


BLIX  127 

"What  difference  would  that  make?" 

And  so  they  went  along  in  that  fine,  clear,  western 
morning,  on  the  edge  of  the  continent,  both  of  them 
young  and  strong  and  vigourous,  the  Pacific  under 
their  eyes,  the  great  clean  Trades  blowing  in  their 
faces,  the  smell  of  the  salt  sea  coming  in  long  aromatic 
whiffs  to  their  nostrils.  Young  and  strong  and  fresh, 
their  imaginations  thronging  with  pictures  of  vigour 
ous  action  and  adventure,  buccaneering,  filibustering, 
and  all  the  swing,  the  leap,  the  rush  and  gallop,  the 
exuberant,  strong  life  of  the  great,  uncharted  world 
of  Romance. 

And  all  unknowingly  they  were  a  romance  in  them 
selves.  Cynicism,  old  age,  and  the  weariness  of  all 
things  done  had  no  place  in  the  world  in  which  they 
walked.  They  still  had  their  illusions,  all  the  keenness 
of  their  sensations,  all  the  vividness  of  their  impressions. 
The  simple  things  of  the  world,  the  great,  broad,  primal 
emotions  of  the  race  stirred  in  them.  As  they  swung 
along,  going  toward  the  ocean,  their  brains  were  almost 
as  empty  of  thought  or  of  reflection  as  those  of  two 
fine,  clean  animals.  They  were  all  for  the  immediate 
sensation;  they  did  not  think — they  felt.  The  intellect 
was  dormant;  they  looked  at  things,  they  heard  things, 
they  smelt  the  smell  of  the  sea,  and  of  the  seaweed, 
of  the  fat,  rank  growth  of  cresses  in  the  salt  marshes; 
they  turned  their  cheeks  to  the  passing  wind,  and  filled 
their  mouths  and  breasts  with  it.  Their  life  was  sweet 
to  them;  every  hour  was  one  glad  effervescence.  The 
fact  that  the  ocean  was  blue  was  a  matter  for  rejoicing. 
It  was  good  to  be  alive  on  that  royal  morning.  Just  to 
be  young  was  an  exhilaration;  and  everything  was 
young  with  them — the  day  was  young,  the  country 
was  young,  and  the  civilization  to  which  they  belonged, 
teeming  there  upon  the  green,  western  fringe  of  the 


i28  BLIX 

continent,  was  young  and  heady  and  tumultuous 
with  the  boisterous,  red  blood  of  a  new  race. 

Condy  even  forgot,  or  rather  disdained  on  such  a 
morning  as  that,  to  piece  together  and  rearrange  Captain 
Jack's  yarns  into  story  form.  To  look  at  the  sea  and 
the  green  hills,  to  watch  the  pink  on  Blix's  cheek  and 
her  yellow  hair  blowing  across  her  eyes  and  lips,  was 
better  than  thinking.  Life  was  better  than  literature. 
To  live  was  better  than  to  read;  one  live  human  being 
was  better  than  ten  thousand  Shakespeares ;  an  act 
was  better  than  a  thought.  Why,  just  to  love 
Blix,  to  be  with  her,  to  see  the  sweet,  clean  flush 
of  her  cheek,  to  know  that  she  was  there  at  his 
side,  and  to  have  the  touch  of  her  elbow  as  they 
walked,  was  better  than  the  best  story,  the  greatest 
novel  he  could  ever  hope  to  write.  Life  was 
better  than  literature,  and  love  was  the  best  thing 
in  life.  To  love  Blix  and  to  be  near  her — what 
else  was  worth  while?  Could  he  ever  think  of  rinding 
anything  in  life  sweeter  and  finer  than  this  dear  young 
girl  of  nineteen  ? 

Suddenly  Condy  came  to  himself  with  an  abrupt 
start.  What  was  this  he  was  thinking — what  was  this 
he  was  telling  himself  ?  Love  Blix !  He  loved  Blix ! 
Why,  of  course  he  loved  her — loved  her  so  that  with 
the  thought  of  it  there  came  a  great,  sudden  clutch  at 
the  heart  and  a  strange  sense  of  tenderness,  so  vague 
and  yet  so  great  that  it  eluded  speech  and  all  expression. 
Love  her !  Of  course  he  loved  her !  He  had,  all 
unknowing,  loved  her  even  before  this  wonderful 
morning;  had  loved  her  that  day  at  the  lake,  and 
that  never-to-be-forgotten,  delicious  afternoon  in  the 
Chinese  restaurant;  all  those  long,  quiet  evenings 
spent  in  the  window  of  the  little  dining-room,  looking 
down  upon  the  darkening  city,  he  had  loved  her. 


BLIX  129 

Why,  all  his  days  for  the  last  few  months  had  been 
full  of  the  love  of  her. 

How  else  had  he  been  so  happy  ?  How  else  did  it  come 
about  that  little  by  little  he  was  withdrawing  from  the 
society  and  influence  of  his  artificial  world,  as  repre 
sented  by  such  men  as  Sargeant  ?  How  else  was  he 
slowly  loosening  the  grip  of  the  one  evil  and  vicious 
habit  that  had  clutched  him  so  long  ?  How  else  was  his 
ambition  stirring  ?  How  else  was  his  hitherto  aimless 
enthusiasm  hardening  to  energy  and  determination  ? 
She  had  not  always  so  influenced  him.  In  the  days 
when  they  had  just  known  each  other,  and  met  each 
other  in  the  weekly  course  of  their  formal  life,  it  had  not 
been  so,  even  though  they  pretended  a  certain  amount 
of  affection.  He  remembered  the  evening  when  Blix  had 
brought  those  days  to  an  abrupt  end,  and  how  at  the 
moment  he  had  told  himself  that  after  all  he  had  never 
known  the  real  Blix.  Since  then,  in  the  charming, 
unconventional  life  they  had  led,  everything  had  been 
changed.  He  had  come  to  know  her  for  what  she  was, 
to  know  her  genuine  goodness,  her  sincerity,  her  contempt 
of  affectations,  her  comradeship,  her  calm,  fine  strength 
and  unbroken  good  nature;  and  day  by  day,  here  a  little 
and  there  a  little,  his  love  for  her  had  grown  so  quietly, 
so  evenly,  that  he  had  never  known  it,  until  now,  behold  ! 
it  was  suddenly  come  to  flower,  full  and  strong — a  flower 
whose  fragrance  had  suddenly  filled  all  his  life  and  all 
his  world  with  its  sweetness. 

Half  an  hour  after  leaving  the  life-boat  station,  Condy 
and  Blix  reached  the  old,  red-brick  fort,  deserted, 
abandoned,  and  rime-encrusted,  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Golden  Gate.  They  turned  its  angle,  and  there  rolled 
the  Pacific,  a  blue  floor  of  shifting  water,  stretching 
out  there  forever  and  forever  over  the  curve  of 
the  earth,  over  the  shoulder  of  the  world,  with 


130  BLIX 

never  a  sail  in  view  and  never  a  break  from  horizon 
to  horizon. 

They  followed  down  the  shore,  sometimes  upon 
the  old  and  broken  flume  that  runs  along  the  seaward 
face  of  the  hills  that  rise  from  the  beach,  or  sometimes 
upon  the  beach  itself,  stepping  from  boulder  to  boulder, 
or  holding  along  at  the  edge  of  the  water  upon  reaches 
of  white,  hard  sand. 

The  beach  was  solitary;  not  a  soul  was  in  sight.  Close 
at  hand,  to  landward,  great  hills,  bare  and  green,  shut 
off  the  sky ;  and  here  and  there  the  land  came  tumbling 
down  into  the  sea  in  great,  jagged,  craggy  rocks,  knee- 
deep  in  swirling  foam,  and  all  black  with  wet.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  prolonged  thunder  of  the  surf,  and  at 
intervals  sea-birds  passed  overhead  with  an  occasional, 
piping  cry.  Wreckage  was  tumbled  about  here  and 
there;  and  innumerable  cocoanut  shards,  huge,  brown 
cups  of  fuzzy  bark,  lay  under  foot  and  in  the  crevices 
of  the  rocks.  They  found  a  jellyfish — a  pulpy,  trans 
lucent  mass;  and  once  even  caught  a  sight  of  a  seal  in 
the  hollow  of  a  breaker,  with  sleek  and  shining  head, 
his  barbels  bristling,  and  heard  his  hoarse  croaking 
bark  as  he  hunted  the  off-shore  fish. 

Blix  refused  to  allow  Condy  to  help  her  in  the  least. 
She  was  quite  as  active  and  strong  as  he,  and  clambered 
from  rock  to  rock  and  over  the  shattered  scantling  of 
the  flume  with  the  vigour  and  agility  of  a  young  boy. 
She  muddied  her  shoes  to  the  very  tops,  scratched  her 
hands,  tore  her  skirt,  and  even  twisted  her  ankle;  but 
her  little  eyes  were  never  so  bright,  nor  was  the  pink 
flush  of  her  cheeks  ever  more  adorable.  And  she  was 
never  done  talking — a  veritable  chatterbox.  She  saw 
everything  and  talked  about  everything  she  saw,  quite 
indifferent  as  to  whether  or  not  Condy  listened.  Now  it 
was  a  queer  bit  of  seaweed,  now  it  was  a  group  of  gulls 


BLIX  131 

clamouring  over  a  dead  fish,  now  a  purple  starfish,  now 
a  breaker  of  unusual  size.  Her  splendid  vitality  carried 
her  away.  She  was  excited,  alive  to  her  very  finger 
tips,  vibrant  to  the  least  sensation,  quivering  to  the 
least  impression. 

"Let's  get  up  here  and  sit  down  somewhere/'  said 
Condy,  at  length. 

They  left  the  beach  and  climbed  up  the  slope  of  the 
hills,  near  a  point  where  a  long  arm  of  land  thrust  out 
into  the  sea  and  shut  off  the  wind ;  a  path  was  there,  and 
they  followed  it  for  a  few  yards,  till  they  had  come  to  a 
little  amphitheatre  surrounded  with  blackberry  bushes. 

Here  they  sat  down,  Blix  settling  herself  on  an  old 
log  with  a  little  sigh  of  contentment,  Condy  stretching 
himself  out,  a  new-lit  pipe  in  his  teeth,  his  head  resting 
on  the  little  handbag  he  had  persistently  carried  ever 
since  morning.  Then  Blix  fell  suddenly  silent,  and  for 
a  long  time  the  two  sat  there  without  speaking,  absorbed 
in  the  enjoyment  of  looking  at  the  enormous  green  hills 
rolling  down  to  the  sea,  the  breakers  thundering  at  the 
beach,  the  gashed  pinnacles  of  rock,  the  vast  reach  of 
the  Pacific,  and  the  distant  prospect  of  the  old  fort  at 
the  entrance  of  the  Golden  Gate. 

"We  might  be  a  thousand  miles  away  from  the  city, 
for  all  the  looks  of  it,  mightn't  we,  Condy?"  said  Blix, 
after  awhile.  "And  I'm  that  hungry!  It  must  be 
nearly  noon." 

For  answer,  Condy  sat  up  with  profound  gravity, 
and  with  a  great  air  of  nonchalance  opened  the  hand 
bag,  and,  instead  of  shoes,  took  out,  first,  a  pint  bottle 
of  claret,  then  "devilish"  ham  sandwiches  in  oiled 
paper,  a  bottle  of  stuffed  olives,  a  great  bag  of  salted 
almonds,  two  little  tumblers,  a  paper-covered  novel, 
and  a  mouth  organ. 

Blix  fairly  crowed  with  delight,  clasping  her  hands 


BLIX 


upon  her  knees,  and  rocking  to  and  fro  where  she  sat 
upon  the  log. 

"Oh,  Condy,  and  you  thought  of  a  lunch  —  you  said 
it  was  shoes  —  and  you  remembered  I  loved  stuffed 
olives,  too;  and  a  book  to  read.  What  is  it  —  'The 
Seven  Seas.'  No,  I  never  was  so  happy.  But  the 
mouth-organ  —  what's  that  for?" 

"To  play  on.  What  did  you  think  —  think  it  was  a 
can-opener?" 

Blix  choked  with  merriment  over  this  foolery,  and 
Condy  added  proudly: 

"Look  there!     /  made  those  sandwiches!" 

They  looked  as  though  he  had  —  great,  fat  chunks  of 
bread,  the  crust  still  on;  the  "devilish"  ham  in  thick 
strata  between;  and,  positively,  he  had  buttered  the 
bread.  But  it  was  all  one  with  them  ;  they  ate  as  though 
at  a  banquet,  and  Blix  even  took  off  her  hat  and  hung 
it  upon  one  of  the  nearby  bushes.  Of  course  Condy 
had  forgotten  a  corkscrew.  He  tried  to  dig  out  the 
cork  of  the  claret  bottle  with  his  knife,  until  he  had 
broken  both  blades  and  was  about  to  give  up  in  despair, 
when  Blix,  at  the  end  of  her  patience,  took  the  bottle 
from  him  and  pushed  the  cork  in  with  her  finger. 

"Wine,  music,  literature  and  feasting,"  observed 
Condy.  "We're  getting  regularly  luxurious,  just  like 
Sardanapalus." 

But  Condy  himself  had  suddenly  entered  into  an 
atmosphere  of  happiness  the  like  of  which  he  had  never 
known  or  dreamed  of  before.  He  loved  Blix  —  he  had 
just  discovered  it.  He  loved  her  because  she  was  so 
genuine,  so  radiantly  fresh  and  strong;  loved  her 
because  she  liked  the  things  that  he  liked,  because  they 
two  looked  at  the  world  from  precisely  the  same  point 
of  view,  hating  shams  and  affectations,  happy  in  the 
things  that  were  simple  and  honest  and  natural.  He 


BLIX  133 

loved  her  because  she  liked  his  books,  appreciating  the 
things  therein  that  he  appreciated,  liking  what  he  liked, 
disapproving  of  what  he  condemned.  He  loved  her 
because  she  was  nineteen,  and  because  she  was  so 
young  and  unspoiled  and  was  happy  just  because  the 
ocean  was  blue  and  the  morning  fine.  He  loved  her 
because  she  was  so  pretty,  because  of  the  softness  of 
her  yellow  hair,  because  of  her  round,  white  forehead 
and  pink  cheeks,  because  of  her  little,  dark-brown  eyes, 
with  that  look  in  them  as  if  she  were  just  done  smiling 
or  just  about  to  smile,  one  could  not  say  which;  loved 
her  because  of  her  good,  firm  mouth  and  chin,  because 
of  her  full  neck  and  its  high,  tight  bands  of  white  satin. 
And  he  loved  her  because  her  arms  were  strong  and 
round,  and  because  she  wore  the  great  dog-collar 
around  her  trim,  firm,  corseted  waist,  and  because  there 
emanated  from  her  with  every  movement  a  barely 
perceptible,  delicious,  feminine  odour,  that  was  in  part 
perfume,  but  mostly  a  subtle,  vague  aroma,  charming 
beyond  words,  that  came  from  her  mouth,  her  hair,  her 
neck,  her  arms,  her  whole  sweet  personality.  And  he 
loved  her  because  she  was  herself,  because  she  was  Blix, 
because  of  that  strange,  sweet  influence  that  was  dis 
engaged  from  her  in  those  quiet  moments  when  she 
seemed  so  close  to  him,  when  some  unnamed,  mysteri 
ous  sixth  sense  in  him  stirred  and  woke  and  told  him  of 
her  goodness,  of  her  clean  purity  and  womanliness;  and 
that  certain,  vague  tenderness  in  him  went  out  toward 
her,  a  tenderness  not  for  her  only,  but  for  all  the  good 
things  of  the  world;  and  he  felt  his  nobler  side  rousing 
up  and  the  awakening  of  the  desire  to  be  his  better  self. 
Covertly  he  looked  at  her,  as  she  sat  near  him,  her 
yellow  hair  rolling  and  blowing  back  from  her  forehead, 
her  hands  clasped  over  her  knee,  looking  out  over  the 
ocean,  thoughtful,  her  eyes  wide. 


i34  BLIX 

She  had  told  him  she  did  not  love  him.  Condy 
remembered  that  perfectly  well.  She  was  sincere  in 
the  matter;  she  did  not  love  him.  That  subject  had 
been  once  and  for  all  banished  from  their  intercourse. 
And  it  was  because  of  that  very  reason  that  their 
companionship  of  the  last  three  or  four  months  had 
been  so  charming.  She  looked  upon  him  merely  as  a 
chum.  She  had  not  changed  in  the  least  from  that 
time  until  now,  whereas  he — why,  all  his  world  was 
new  for  him  that  morning !  Why,  he  loved  her  so,  she 
had  become  so  dear  to  him,  that  the  very  thought  of 
her  made  his  heart  swell  and  leap. 

But  he  must  keep  all  this  to  himself.  If  he  spoke  to 
her,  told  her  of  how  he  loved  her,  it  would  spoil  and  end 
their  companionship  upon  the  instant.  They  had  both 
agreed  upon  that;  they  had  tried  the  other,  and  it  had 
worked  out.  As  lovers  they  had  wearied  of  each  other; 
as  chums  they  had  been  perfectly  congenial,  thoroughly 
and  completely  happy. 

Condy  set  his  teeth.  It  was  a  hard  situation.  He 
must  choose  between  bringing  an  end  to  this  charming 
comradeship  of  theirs,  or  else  fight  back  all  show  of  love 
for  her,  keep  it  down  and  under  hand,  and  that  at  a  time 
when  every  nerve  of  him  quivered  like  a  smitten  harp- 
string.  It  was  not  in  him  or  in  his  temperament  to  love 
her  calmly,  quietly,  or  at  a  distance;  he  wanted  the  touch 
of  her  hand,  the  touch  of  her  cool,  smooth  cheek,  the 
delicious  aroma  of  her  breath  in  his  nostrils,  her  lips 
against  his,  her  hair  and  all  its  fragrance  in  his  face. 

"Condy,  what's  the  matter?"  Blix  was  looking  at 
him  with  an  expression  of  no  little  concern.  "What  are 
you  frowning  so  about,  and  clenching  your  fists  ?  And 
you're  pale,  too.  What's  gone  wrong  ? " 

He  shot  a  glance  at  her,  and  bestirred  himself 
sharply. 


BLIX  135 

"  Isn't  this  a  jolly  little  corner  ? "  he  said.  "  Blix,  how 
long  is  it  before  you  go  ? " 

"Six  weeks  from  to-morrow." 

"And  you're  going  to  be  gone  four  years — four  years  ! 
Maybe  you  never  will  come  back.  Can't  tell  what  will 
happen  in  four  years.  Where's  the  blooming  mouth- 
organ?" 

But  the  mouth-organ  was  full  of  crumbs.  Condy 
could  not  play  on  it.  To  all  his  efforts  it  responded  only 
by  gasps,  mournfulest  death-rattles,  and  lamentable 
wails.  Condy  hurled  it  into  the  sea. 

"Well,  where's  the  blooming  book,  then?"  he  de 
manded.  "You're  sitting  on  it,  Blix.  Here,  read 
something  in  it.  Open  it  anywhere. " 

"No;  you  read  to  me." 

"I  will  not.  Haven't  I  done  enough?  Didn't  I  buy 
the  book,  and  get  the  lunch,  and  make  the  sandwiches, 
and  pay  the  carfare.  I  think  this  expedition  will  cost 
me  pretty  near  three  dollars  before  we're  through  with 
the  day.  No;  the  least  you  can  do  is  to  read  to  me. 
Here,  we'll  match  for  it. " 

Condy  drew  a  dime  from  his  pocket,  and  Blix  a  quarter 
from  her  purse. 

"You're  matching  me,"  she  said. 

Condy  tossed  the  coin  and  lost,  and  Blix  said,  as  he 
picked  up  the  book: 

"  For  a  man  that  has  such  unvarying  bad  luck  as  you, 
gambling  is  just  simple  madness.  You  and  I  have  never 
played  a  game  of  poker  yet  that  I've  not  won  every  cent 
of  money  you  had. " 

"Yes;  and  what  are  you  doing  with  it  all?" 

"Spending  it,"  she  returned  loftily;  "gloves  and  veils 
•and  lace-pins — all  kinds  of  things.  " 

But  Condy  knew  from  the  way  she  spoke  that  this 
"was  not  true. 


136  BLIX 

For  the  next  hour  or  so  he  read  to  her  from  "The 
Seven  Seas,"  while  the  afternoon  passed,  the  wind 
stirring  the  chapparal  and  blackberry  bushes  in  the 
hollows  of  the  huge,  bare  hills,  the  surf  rolling  and 
grumbling  on  the  beach  below,  the  sea-birds  wheeling 
overhead.  Blix  listened  intently,  but  Condy  could  not 
have  told  of  what  he  was  reading.  Living  was  better 
than  reading,  life  was  better  than  literature,  and  his 
new-found  love  for  her  was  poetry  enough  for  him. 
He  read  so  that  he  might  not  talk  to  her  or  look  at 
her,  for  it  seemed  to  him  at  times  as  though  some 
second  self  in  him  would  speak  and  betray  him  in 
spite  of  his  best  efforts.  Never  before  in  all  his  life 
had  he  been  so  happy;  never  before  had  he  been 
so  troubled.  He  began  to  jumble  the  lines  and  words 
as  he  read,  overrunning  periods,  even  turning  two 
pages  at  once. 

"What  a  splendid  line  ! "   Blix  exclaimed. 

"What  line — what — what  are  you  talking  about? 
Blix,  let's  always  remember  to-day.  Let's  make  a 
promise,  no  matter  what  happens  or  where  we  are,  let's 
always  write  to  each  other  on  the  anniversary  of  to-day. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"Yes;  I'll  promise — and  you " 

"I'll  promise  faithfully.  Oh,  I'll  never  forget  to-day 
nor — yes,  yes,  I'll  promise — why,  to-day — Blix — where's 
that  damn  book  gone?" 

"Condy!" 

"Well,  I  can't  find  the  book.  You're  sitting  on  it 
again.  Confound  the  book,  anyway  !  Let's  walk  some 
more. " 

"We've  a  long  ways  to  go  if  we're  to  get  home  in  time 
for  supper.  Let's  go  to  Luna's  for  supper.  " 

' '  I  never  saw  such  a  girl  as  you  to  think  of  ways  for 
spending  money.  What  kind  of  a  purse-proud  plutocrat 


BLIX  137 

do  you  think  I  am?     I've  only  seventy-five  cents  left. 
How  much  have  you  got  ? " 

Blix  had  fifty-five  cents  in  her  purse,  and  they  had  a 
grave  council  over  their  finances.  They  had  just  enough 
for  carfare  and  two  "suppers  Mexican,"  with  ten  cents 
left  over. 

"That's  for  Richard's  tip,"  said  Blix. 

"That's  for  my  cigar,"  he  retorted. 

"You  made  me  give  him  fifty  cents.  You  said  it  was 
the  least  I  could  offer  him — noblesse  oblige.  " 

"Well,  then,  I  couldn't  offer  him  a  dime,  don't  you  see? 
I'll  tell  him  we  are  broke  this  time.  " 

They  started  home,  not  as  they  had  come,  but  climb 
ing  the  hill  and  going  on  across  a  breezy  open  down, 
radiant  with  blue  iris,  wild  heliotrope,  yellow  poppies, 
and  even  a  violet  here  and  there.  A  little  farther  on 
they  gained  one  of  the  roads  of  the  reservation,  red 
earth  smooth  as  a  billiard  table;  and  just  at  an  angle 
where  the  road  made  a  sharp  elbow  and  trended  cityward 
they  paused  for  a  moment  and  looked  down  and  back 
at  the  superb  view  of  the  ocean,  the  vast  half -moon  of 
land,  and  the  rolling  hills  in  the  foreground  tumbling 
down  toward  the  beach  and  all  spangled  with  wild 
flowers. 

Some  fifteen  minutes  later  they  reached  the  golf-links. 

"We  can  go  across  the  links,"  said  Condy,  "and 
strike  any  number  of  car  lines  on  the  other  side. " 

They  left  the  road  and  struck  across  the  links,  Condy 
smoking  his  new-lit  pipe.  But  as  they  came  around  the 
edge  of  a  long  line  of  eucalyptus  trees  near  the  teeing 
ground,  a  warning  voice  suddenly  called  out: 

"Fore!" 

Condy  and  Blix  looked  up  sharply,  and  there  in  a  group 
not  twenty  feet  away,  in  tweeds  and  "knickers,"  in 
smart,  short  golfing-skirts  and  plaid  cloaks,  they  saw 


138  BLIX 

young  Sargeant  and  his  sister,  two  other  girls 
whom  they  knew  as  members  of  the  fashionable 
"set,"  and  Jack  Carter  in  the  act  of  swinging  his 
driving-iron. 


XI 


As  the  clock  in  the  library  of  the  club  struck  midnight 
Condy  laid  down  his  pen,  shoved  the  closely  written 
sheets  of  paper  from  him,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
his  fingers  to  his  tired  eyes.  He  was  sitting  at  a  desk 
in  one  of  the  farther  corners  of  the  room  and  shut  off 
by  a  great  Japanese  screen.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
his  hair  was  tumbled,  his  fingers  ink-stained,  and  his 
face  a  little  pale. 

Since  late  in  the  evening  he  had  been  steadily  writing. 
Three  chapters  of  "In  Defiance  of  Authority"  were 
done,  and  he  was  now  at  work  on  the  fourth.  The  day 
after  the  excursion  to  the  Presidio — that  wonderful 
event  which  seemed  to  Condy  to  mark  the  birthday  of 
some  new  man  within  him — the  idea  had  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  Captain  Jack's  story  of  the  club 
of  the  exiles,  the  boom  restaurant  and  the  filibustering 
expedition  was  precisely  the  novel  of  adventure  of  which 
the  Centennial  Company  had  spoken.  At  once  he  had 
set  to  work  upon  it  with  an  enthusiasm  that,  with 
shut  teeth,  he  declared  would  not  be  lacking  in  energy. 
The  story  would  have  to  be  written  out  of  his  business 
hours.  That  meant  he  would  have  to  give  up  his 
evenings  to  it.  But  he  had  done  this,  and  for  nearly 
a  week  had  settled  himself  to  his  task  in  the  quiet 
corner  of  the  club  at  eight  o'clock,  and  held  to  it 
resolutely  until  twelve. 

The  first  two  chapters  had  run  off  his  pen  with  delight 
ful  ease.  The  third  came  harder;  the  events  and  inci 
dents  of  the  story  became  confused  and  contradictory; 

139 


1 40  BLIX 

the  character  of  Billy  Isham  obstinately  refused  to  take 
the  prominent  place  which  Condy  had  designed  for  him ; 
and  with  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  chapter,  Condy 
had  finally  come  to  know  the  enormous  difficulties, 
the  exasperating  complications,  the  discouragements 
that  begin  anew  with  every  paragraph,  the  obstacles 
that  refuse  to  be  surmounted,  and  all  the  pain,  the 
labour,  the  downright  mental  travail  and  anguish  that 
fall  to  the  lot  of  the  writer  of  novels. 

To  write  a  short  story  with  the  end  in  plain  sight  from 
the  beginning  was  an  easy  matter  compared  to  the 
upbuilding,  grain  by  grain,  atom  by  atom,  of  the  fabric 
of  "In  Defiance  of  Authority."  Condy  soon  found  that 
there  was  but  one  way  to  go  about  the  business.  He 
must  shut  his  eyes  to  the  end  of  his  novel — that  far-off, 
divine  event — and  take  his  task  chapter  by  chapter, 
even  paragraph  by  paragraph;  grinding  out  the  tale, 
as  it  were,  by  main  strength,  driving  his  pen  from  line 
to  line,  hating  the  effort,  happy  only  with  the  termina 
tion  of  each  chapter,  and  working  away,  hour  by  hour, 
minute  by  minute,  with  the  dogged,  sullen,  hammer- 
and-tongs  obstinacy  of  the  galley  slave,  scourged  to  his 
daily  toil. 

At  times  the  tale,  apparently  out  of  sheer  perversity, 
would  come  to  a  full  stop.  To  write  another  word 
seemed  beyond  the  power  of  human  ingenuity,  and  for 
an  hour  or  more  Condy  would  sit  scowling  at  the  half- 
written  page,  gnawing  his  nails,  scouring  his  hair,  dipping 
his  pen  into  the  ink  well,  and  squaring  himself  to  the 
sheet  of  paper,  all  to  no  purpose. 

There  was  no  pleasure  in  it  for  him.  A  character 
once  fixed  in  his  mind,  a  scene  once  pictured  in  his 
imagination,  and  even  before  he  had  written  a  word 
the  character  lost  the  charm  of  its  novelty,  the  scene 
the  freshness  of  its  original  conception.  Then,  with 


BLIX  141 

infinite  painstaking  and  with  a  patience  little  short  of 
miraculous,  he  must  slowly  build  up,  brick  by  brick, 
the  plan  his  brain  had  outlined  in  a  single  instant.  It 
was  all  work — hard,  disagreeable,  labourious  work; 
and  no  juggling  with  phrases,  no  false  notions  as  to  the 
"delight  of  creation,"  could  make  it  appear  otherwise. 
"And  for  what,"  he  muttered  as  he  rose,  rolled  up  his 
sheaf  of  manuscript,  and  put  on  his  coat;  "what  do  I  do 
it  for,  I  don't  know." 

It  was  beyond  question  that,  had  he  begun  his 
novel  three  months  before  this  time,  Condy  would 
have  long  since  abandoned  the  hateful  task.  But 
Blix  had  changed  all  that.  A  sudden  male  force 
had  begun  to  develop  in  Condy.  A  master  emotion 
had  shaken  him,  and  he  had  commenced  to  see 
and  to  feel  the  serious,  more  abiding,  and  perhaps 
the  sterner  side  of  life.  Blix  had  steadied  him, 
there  was  no  denying  that.  He  was  not  quite  the 
same  boyish,  hair-brained  fellow  who  had  made  "a 
buffoon  of  himself"  in  the  Chinese  restaurant,  three 
months  before. 

The  cars  had  stopped  running  by  the  time  Condy 
reached  the  street.  He  walked  home  and  flung  himself 
to  bed,  his  mind  tired,  his  nerves  unstrung,  and  all  the 
blood  of  his  body  apparently  concentrated  in  his  brain. 
Working  at  night  after  writing  all  day  long  was  telling 
upon  him,  and  he  knew  it. 

What  with  his  work  and  his  companionship  with 
Blix,  Condy  soon  began  to  drop  out  of  his  wonted 
place  in  his  "set."  He  was  obliged  to  decline  one 
invitation  after  another  that  would  take  him  out  in 
the  evening,  and  instead  of  lunching  at  his  club  with 
Sargeant  or  George  Hands,  as  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  do  at  one  time,  he  fell  into  another  habit  of  lunching 
with  Blix  at  the  flat  on  Washington  Street,  and  spending 


142  BLIX 

the  two  hours  allowed  to  him  in  the  middle  of  the  day 
in  her  company. 

Condy's  desertion  of  them  was  often  spoken  of  by  the 
men  of  his  club  with  whom  he  had  been  at  one  time  so 
intimate,  and  the  subject  happened  to  be  brought  up 
again  one  noon  when  Jack  Carter  was  in  the  club  as 
George  Hands'  guest.  Hands,  Carter  and  Eckert  were 
at  one  of  the  windows  over  their  after-dinner  cigars 
and  liquors. 

"I  say,"  said  Eckert  suddenly,  "who's  that  girl  across 
the  street  there — the  one  in  black,  just  going  by  that 
furrier's  sign?  I've  seen  her  somewhere  before.  Know 
who  it  is?" 

"That's  Miss  Bessemer,  isn't  it?"  said  George  Hands,, 
leaning  forward.  ' ' Rather  a  stunning-looking  girl. ' ' 

"Yes,  that's  Travis  Bessemer,"  assented  Jack  Carter, 
adding,  a  moment  later:  "It's  too  bad  about  that 
girl." 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Eckert. 

Carter  lifted  a  shoulder.  "Isn't  anything  the  matter 
as  far  as  I  know,  only  somehow  the  best  people  have 
dropped  her.  She  used  to  be  received  everywhere." 

"Come  to  think,  I  haven't  seen  her  out  much  this 
season,"  said  Eckert.  "But  I  heard  she  had  bolted 
from  'Society'  with  the  big  S,  and  was  going  east — 
going  to  study  medicine,  I  believe." 

"I've  always  noticed,"  said  Carter,  with  a  smile, 
"that  so  soon  as  a  girl  is  declassed  she  develops  a  purpose 
in  life,  and  gets  earnest,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Oh,  well,  come,"  growled  George  Hands.  "Travis 
Bessemer  is  not  declassed." 

"I  didn't  say  she  was,"  answered  Carter;  "but  she 
has  made  herself  talked  about  a  good  deal  lately. 
Going  around  with  Rivers,  as  she  does,  isn't  the  most 
discreet  thing  in  the  world.  Of  course  it's  all  right,  but 


BLIX  143 

it  all  makes  talk;  and  I  came  across  them  by  a  grove  of 
trees  out  on  the  links  the  other  day " 

"Yes,"  observed  Sargeant,  leaning  on  the  back  of 
Carter's  armchair;  "yes;  and  I  noticed,  too,  that  she  cut 
you  dead.  You  fellows  should  have  been  there,"  he 
went  on,  in  perfect  good  humour,  turning  to  the  others. 
"You  missed  a  good  little  scene.  Rivers  and  Miss 
Bessemer  had  been  taking  a  tramp  over  the  reservation 
— and,  by  the  way,  it's  a  great  place  to  walk,  so  my 
sister  tells  me;  she  and  Dick  Forsythe  take  a  constitu 
tional  out  there  every  Saturday  morning.  Well,  as  I 
was  saying,  Rivers  and  Miss  Bessemer  came  upon  our 
party  rather  unexpectedly.  We  were  all  togged  out  in 
our  golfmg-bags,  and  I  presume  we  looked  more  like 
tailor's  models,  posing  for  the  gallery,  than  people  who 
were  taking  an  outing;  but  Rivers  and  Miss  Bessemer 
had  been  regularly  exercising;  looked  as  though  they 
had  done  their  fifteen  miles  since  morning.  They  had 
their  old  clothes  on,  and  they  were  dusty  and  muddy. 

"You  would  have  thought  that  a  young  girl  such  as 
Miss  Bessemer  is — for  she's  very  young — would  have 
been  a  little  embarrassed  at  running  up  against  such  a 
spick  and  span  lot  as  we  were.  Not  a  bit  of  it;  didn't 
lose  her  poise  for  a  moment.  She  bowed  to  my  sister 
and  to  me,  as  though  from  the  top  of  a  drag,  by  Jove ! 
and  as  though  she  were  fresh  from  Redfern  and  Virot. 
You  know  a  girl  that  can  manage  herself  that  way  is  a 
thoroughbred.  She  even  remembered  to  cut  little 
Johnnie  Carter  here,  because  Johnnie  forced  himself 
upon  her  one  night  at  a  dance  when  he  was  drunk; 
didn't  she,  Johnnie?  Johnnie  came  up  to  her  there, 
out  on  the  links,  fresh  as  a  daisy,  and  put  out  his  hand 
with,  'Why,  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Bessemer?'  and 
'  Wherever  did  you  come  from  ? '  and  '  I  haven't  seen  you 
in  so  long';  and  she  says,  'No,  not  since  our  last  dance, 


144  BLIX 

I  believe,  Mr.  Carter,'  and  looked  at  his  hand  as  though 
it  was  something  funny. 

"Little  Johnnie  mumbled  and  flushed  and  stammered 
and  backed  off;  and  it  was  well  that  he  did,  because 
Rivers  had  begun  to  get  red  around  the  wattles.  /  say 
the  little  girl  is  a  thoroughbred,  and  my  sister  wants 
to  give  her  a  dinner  as  soon  as  she  comes  out.  But 
Johnnie  says  she's  declassee,  so  maybe  my  sister  had 
better  think  it  over." 

"I  didn't  say  she  was  declassee,1'  exclaimed  Carter. 
"I  only  said  she  would  do  well  to  be  more  careful." 

Sargeant  shifted  his  cigar  to  the  other  corner  of  his 
mouth,  one  eye  shut  to  avoid  the  smoke. 

"One  might  say  as  much  of  lots  of  people,"  he 
answered. 

"I  don't  like  your  tone!"  Carter  flared  out. 

"Oh,  go  to  the  devil,  Johnnie!  Shall  we  all  have  a 
drink?" 

On  the  Friday  evening  of  that  week,  Condy  set  him 
self  to  work  at  his  accustomed  hour.  But  he  had  had 
a  hard  day  on  the  Times  supplement,  and  his  brain, 
like  an  overdriven  horse,  refused  to  work.  In  half  an 
hour  he  had  not  written  a  paragraph. 

"I  thought  it  would  be  better,  in  the  end,  to  loaf  for 
one  evening,"  he  explained  to  Blix,  some  twenty 
minutes  later,  as  they  settled  themselves  in  the  little 
dining-room.  "I  can  go  at  it  better  to-morrow.  See 
how  you  like  this  last  chapter." 

Blix  was  enthusiastic  over  "In  Defiance  of  Authority." 
Condy  had  told  her  the  outline  of  the  story,  and  had 
read  to  her  each  chapter  as  he  finished  it. 

"It's  the  best  thing  you  have  ever  done,  Condy,  and 
you  know  it.  I  suppose  it  has  faults,  but  I  don't  care 
anything  about  them.  It's  the  story  itself  that's  so 
interesting.  After  that  first  chapter  of  the  boom 


BLIX  145 

restaurant  and  the  exiles'  club,  nobody  would  want  to 
lay  the  book  down.  You're  doing  the  best  work  of 
your  life  so  far,  and  you  stick  to  it." 

"It's  grinding  out  copy  for  the  supplement  at  the 
same  time  that  takes  all  the  starch  out  of  me.  You've 
no  idea  what  it  means  to  write  all  day  and  then  sit  down 
and  write  all  evening." 

"I  wish  you  could  get  off  the  Times,"  said  Blix. 
"You're  just  giving  the  best  part  of  your  life  to  hack 
work,  and  now  it's  interfering  with  your  novel.  I 
know  you  could  do  better  work  on  your  novel  if  you 
didn't  have  to  work  on  the  Times:  couldn't  you?" 

"Oh,  if  you  come  to  that,  of  course  I  could,"  he 
answered.  "But  they  won't  give  me  a  vacation.  I 
was  sounding  the  editor  on  it  day  before  yesterday. 
No;  I'll  have  to  manage  to  swing  the  two  somehow 
together." 

"Well,  let's  not  talk  shop  now,  Condy.  You  need  a 
rest.  Do  you  want  to  play  poker  ? " 

They  played  for  upward  of  an  hour  that  evening, 
and  Condy,  as  usual,  lost.  His  ill-luck  was  positively 
astonishing.  During  the  last  two  months  he  had  played 
poker  with  Blix  on  an  average  of  three  or  four  evenings 
in  the  week,  and  at  the  close  of  every  game  it  was  Blix 
who  had  all  the  chips. 

Blix  had  come  to  know  the  game  quite  as  well,  if  not 
better,  than  he.  She  could  almost  invariably  tell  when 
Condy  held  a  good  hand,  but  on  her  part  could  assume 
an  air  of  indifference  absolutely  inscrutable. 

"Cards?"  said  Condy,  picking  up  the  deck  after  the 
deal. 

"I'll  stand  pat,  Condy." 

"The  deuce  you  say,"  he  answered  with  a  stare.  "I'll 
take  three." 

"I'll  pass  it  up  to  you,"  continued  Blix  gravely. 


1 46  BLIX 

"Well— well,  I'll  bet  you  five  chips." 

"Raise  you  twenty." 

Condy  studied  his  hand,  laid  down  the  cards, 
picked  them  up  again,  scratched  his  head,  and  moved 
uneasily  in  his  place.  Then  he  threw  down  two  high 
pairs. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  won't  see  you.  What  did  you 
have  ?  Let's  see,  just  for  the  fun  of  it." 

Blix  spread  her  cards  on  the  table. 

"  Not  a  blessed  thing ! "  exclaimed  Condy.  "  I  might 
have  known  it.  There's  my  last  dollar  gone,  too.  Lend 
me  fifty  cents,  Blix." 

Blix  shook  her  head. 

"Why,  what  a  little  niggard!"  he  exclaimed  aggriev- 
edly.  "I'll  pay  them  all  back  to  you." 

"Now,  why  should  I  lend  you  money  to  play  against 
me?  I'll  not  give  you  a  chip;  and  besides,  I  don't  want 
to  play  any  more.  Let's  stop." 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  stop  for  good — stop  playing  even 
with  you." 

Blix  gave  a  little  cry  of  joy. 

"Oh,  Condy,  will  you,  could  you?  and  never,  never 
touch  a  card  again?  never  play  for  money?  I'd  be  so 
happy — but  don't,  unless  you  know  you  would  keep 
your  promise.  I  would  much  rather  have  you  play 
every  night,  down  there  at  your  club,  than  break  your 
promise." 

Condy  fell  silent,  biting  thoughtfully  at  the  knuckle 
of  a  forefinger. 

"Think  twice  about  it,  Condy,"  urged  Blix;  "because 
this  would  be  for  always." 

Condy  hesitated;  then,  abstractedly,  and  as  though 
speaking  to  himself: 

"It's  different  now.  Before  we  took  that — three 
months  ago,  I  don't  say.  It  was  harder  for  me  to  quit 


BLIX  147 

then,  but  now — well,  everything  is  different  now;  and 
it  would  please  you,  Blixy!" 

"More  than  anything  else  I  can  think  of,  Condy." 

He  gave  her  his  hand. 

"That  settles  it,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I'll  never  gamble 
again,  Blix." 

Blix  gripped  his  hand  hard,  then  jumped  up,  and, 
with  a  quick  breath  of  satisfaction,  gathered  up  the 
cards  and  chips  and  flung  them  into  the  fireplace. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  that's  over  with,"  she  exclaimed, 
her  little  eyes  dancing.  "I've  pretended  to  like  it,  but 
I've  hated  it  all  the  time.  You  don't  know  how  I've 
hated  it !  What  men  can  see  in  it  to  make  them  sit  up 
all  night  long  is  beyond  me.  And  you  truly  mean, 
Condy,  that  you  will  never  gamble  again  ?  Yes,  I  know 
you  mean  it  this  time.  Oh,  I'm  so  happy  I  could 
sing!" 

"Good  heavens,  don't  do  that!"  he  cried  quickly. 
41  You're  a  nice,  amiable  girl,  Blix,  even  if  you're  not 
pretty,  and  you ' 

"Oh,  bother  you !"  she  retorted;  "but  you  promise?" 

"On  my  honour." 

"That's  enough"  she  said  quietly. 

But  even  when  "loafing"  as  he  was  this  evening, 
Condy  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  thought  and  recol 
lection  of  his  novel;  resting  or  writing,  it  haunted  him. 
Otherwise  he  would  not  have  been  the  story-writer  that 
he  was.  From  now  on  until  he  should  set  down  the  last 
sentence,  the  "thing"  was  never  to  let  him  alone,  never 
to  allow  him  a  moment's  peace.  He  could  think  of 
nothing  else,  could  talk  of  nothing  else;  every  faculty 
of  his  brain,  every  sense  of  observation  or  imagination 
incessantly  concentrated  themselves  upon  this  one 
point. 

As  they  sat  in  the  bay  window  watching  the  moon 


i48  BLIX 

rise,  his  mind  was  still  busy  with  it,  and  he  suddenly 
broke  out: 

"  I  ought  to  work  some  kind  of  a  treasure  into  the  yarn. 
What's  a  story  of  adventure  without  a  treasure?  By 
Jove,  Blix,  I  wish  I  could  give  my  whole  time  to  this 
stuff !  It's  ripping  good  material,  and  it  ought  to  be 
handled  as  carefully  as  glass.  Ought  to  be  worked  up, 
you  know." 

"Condy,"  said  Blix,  looking  at  him  intently,  "what 
stands  in  your  way  of  leaving  the  Times?  Would  they 
take  you  back  if  you  left  them  long  enough  to  write 
your  novel?  You  could  write  it  in  a  month,  couldn't 
you,  if  you  had  nothing  else  to  do?  Suppose  you  left 
them  for  a  month — would  they  hold  your  place  for  you  ? " 

"Yes — yes,  I  think  they  would;  but  in  the  meanwhile, 
Blix — there's  the  rub.  I've  never  saved  a  cent  out  of 
my  salary.  When  I  stop,  my  pay  stops,  and  where 
withal  would  I  be  fed?  What  are  you  looking  for  in 
that  drawer — matches?  Here,  I've  got  a  match." 

Blix  faced  about  at  the  sideboard,  shutting  the 
drawer  by  leaning  against  it.  In  both  hands  she  held 
one  of  the  delft  sugar-bowls.  She  came  up  to  the  table 
and  emptied  its  contents  upon  the  blue  denim  table- 
cover — two  or  three  gold  pieces,  some  fifteen  silver 
dollars,  and  a  handful  of  small  change. 

Disregarding  all  Condy's  inquiries,  she  counted  it, 
making  little  piles  of  the  gold  and  silver  and  nickel 
pieces. 

"Thirty-five  and  seven  is  forty-two,"  she  murmured, 
counting  off  on  her  fingers,  "and  six  is  forty-eight,  and 
ten  is  fifty-eight,  and  ten  is  sixty-eight;  and  here  is  ten, 
twenty,  thirty,  fifty-five  cents  in  change."  She  thrust 
it  all  toward  him,  across  the  table.  "There,"  she  said, 
"is  your  wherewithal." 

Condy  stared.     "My  wherewithal!"  he  muttered. 


BLIX  149 

"  It  ought  to  be  enough  for  over  a  month." 

1 '  Where  did  you  get  all  that  ?     Whose  is  it  ? " 

"It's  your  money,  Condy.  You  loaned  it  to  me,  and 
now  it  has  come  in  very  handy." 

4 '  I  loaned  it  to  you  ? ' ' 

"It's  the  money  I  won  from  you  during  the  time  you've 
been  playing  poker  with  me.  You  didn't  know  it  would 
amount  to  so  much,  did  you?" 

"Pshaw,  I'll  not  touch  it!"  he  exclaimed,  drawing 
back  from  the  money  as  though  it  was  red-hot. 

"Yes,  you  will,"  she  told  him.  "I've  been  saving  it 
up  for  you,  Condy,  every  penny  of  it,  from  the  first  day 
we  played  down  there  at  the  lake;  and  I  always  told 
myself  that  the  moment  you  made  up  your  mind  to 
quit  playing,  I  would  give  it  back  to  you." 

"Why,  the  very  idea  ! "  he  vociferated,  his  hands  deep 
in  his  pockets,  his  face  scarlet.  "  It's — it's  preposterous, 
Blix !  I  won't  let  you  talk  about  it,  even — I  won't 
touch  a  nickel  of  that  money.  But,  Blix,  you're — 
you're — the  finest  woman  I  ever  knew.  You're  a 
man's  woman,  that's  what  you  are."  He  set  his  teeth. 
"If  you  loved  a  man,  you'd  be  a  regular  pal  to  him; 
you'd  back  him  up,  you'd  stand  by  him  till  the  last 
gun  was  fired.  I  could  do  anything  if  a  woman  like 
you  cared  for  me.  Why,  Blix,  I — you  haven't  any 
idea "  He  cleared  his  throat,  stopping  abruptly. 

"But  you  must  take  this  money,"  she  answered; 
"your  money.  If  you  didn't,  Condy,  it  would  make 
me  out  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  gambler.  I 
wouldn't  have  dreamed  of  playing  cards  with  you  if  I  had 
ever  intended  to  keep  one  penny  of  your  money.  From 
the  very  start  I  intended  to  keep  it  for  you,  and  give  it 
back  to  you  as  soon  as  you  would  stop;  and  now  you 
have  a  chance  to  put  this  money  to  good  use.  You 
don't  have  to  stay  on  the  Times  now.  You  can't  do 


1 50  BLIX 

your  novel  justice  while  you  are  doing  your  hack  work 
at  the  same  time,  and  I  do  so  want  '  In  Defiance  of 
Authority'  to  be  a  success.  I've  faith  in  you,  Condy. 
I  know  if  you  got  the  opportunity  you  would  make  a 
success." 

"But  you  and  I  have  played  like  two  men  playing," 
exclaimed  Condy.  "How  would  it  look  if  Sargeant, 
say,  should  give  me  back  the  money  he  had  won  from 
me?  What  a  cad  I  would  be  to  take  it !" 

"That's  just  it — we've  not  played  like  two  men. 
Then  I  would  have  been  a  gambler.  I've  played  with 
you  because  I  thought  it  would  make  a  way  for  you 
to  break  off  with  the  habit;  and  knowing  as  I  did  how 
fond  you  were  of  playing  cards  and  how  bad  it  was  for 
you,  how  wicked  it  would  have  been  for  me  to  have 
played  with  you  in  any  other  spirit !  Don't  you  see  ? 
And  as  it  has  turned  out,  you've  given  up  playing,  and 
you've  enough  money  to  make  it  possible  for  you  to 
write  your  novel.  The  Centennial  Company  have 
asked  you  to  try  a  story  of  adventure  for  them,  you've 
found  one  that  is  splendid,  you're  just  the  man  who  could 
handle  it,  and  now  you've  got  the  money  to  make  it 
possible.  Condy!"  she  exclaimed  suddenly,  "don't 
you  see  your  chance?  Aren't  you  a  big  enough  man  to 
see  your  chance  when  it  comes?  And,  besides,  do  you 
think  I  would  take  money  from  you  ?  Can't  you  under 
stand?  If  you  don't  take  this  money  that  belongs  to 
you,  you  would  insult  me.  That  is  just  the  way  I  would 
feel  about  it.  You  must  see  that.  If  you  care  for  me 
at  all,  you'll  take  it." 

The  editor  of  the  Sunday  supplement  put  his  tooth 
pick  behind  his  ear  and  fixed  Condy  with  his  eye-glasses. 

"Well,  it's  like  this,  Rivers,"  he  said.  "Of  course, 
you  know  your  own  business  best.  If  you  stay  on  here 


BLIX  151 

with  us,  it  will  be  all  right.  But  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
that  I  don't  believe  I  can  hold  your  place  for  a  month. 
I  can't  get  a  man  in  here  to  do  your  work  for  just  a 
month,  and  then  fire  him  out  at  the  end  of  that  time. 
I  don't  like  to  lose  you,  but  if  you  have  an  opportunity 
to  get  in  on  another  paper  during  this  vacation  of  yours, 
you're  at  liberty  to  do  so,  for  all  of  me." 

"Then  you  think  my  chance  of  coming  back  here 
would  be  pretty  slim  if  I  leave  for  a  month  now  ?" 

'That's  right." 

There  was  a  silence.     Condy  hesitated;  then  he  rose. 

"I'll  take  the  chance,"  he  announced. 

To  Blix  that  evening,  as  he  told  her  of  the  affair, 
he  said: 

"It's  neck  or  nothing  now,  Blix." 


XII 


BUT  did  Blix  care  for  him  ? 

In  the  retired  corner  of  his  club,  shut  off  by  the 
Japanese  screen,  or  going  up  and  down  the  city  to  and 
from  his  work,  or  sitting  with  her  in  the  bay  window 
of  the  little  dining-room  looking  down  upon  the  city, 
blurred  in  the  twilight  or  radiant  with  the  sunset,  Condy 
asked  himself  the  question.  A  score  of  times  each  day 
he  came  to  a  final,  definite,  negative  decision;  and  a 
score  of  times  reopened  the  whole  subject.  Beyond  the 
fact  that  Blix  had  enjoyed  herself  in  his  company 
during  the  last  months,  Condy  could  find  no  sign  or 
trace  of  encouragement;  and  for  that  matter,  he  told 
himself  that  the  indications  pointed  rather  in  the  other 
direction.  She  had  no  compunction  in  leaving  him  to 
go  away  to  New  York,  perhaps  never  to  return.  In 
less  than  a  month  now  all  their  companionship  was  to 
end,  and  he  would  probably  see  the  last  of  her. 

He  dared  not  let  her  know  that  at  last  he  had  really 
come  to  love  her — that  it  was  no  pretense  now;  for  he 
knew  that  with  such  declaration  their  "good  times" 
would  end  even  before  she  should  go  away.  But  every 
day,  every  hour  that  they  were  together  made  it  harder 
for  him  to  keep  himself  within  bounds. 

What  with  this  trouble  on  his  mind  and  the  grim 
determination  with  which  he  held  to  his  work,  Condy 
changed  rapidly.  Blix  had  steadied  him,  and  a  certain 
earnestness  and  seriousness  of  purpose,  a  certain  strength 
he  had  not  known  before,  came  swiftly  into  being. 

Was  Blix  to  go  away,  leave  him,  perhaps  for  all  time, 

IS2 


BLIX  153 

and  not  know  how  much  he  cared?  Would  he  speak 
before  she  went  ?  Condy  did  not  know.  It  was  a 
question  that  circumstances  would  help  him  to  decide. 
He  would  not  speak,  so  he  resolved,  unless  he  was  sure 
that  she  cared  herself;  and  if  she  did,  she  herself  would 
give  him  a  cue,  a  hint  whereon  to  speak.  But  days 
went  by,  the  time  set  for  Blix's  departure  drew  nearer 
and  nearer,  and  yet  she  gave  him  not  the  slightest  sign. 

These  two  interests  had  now  absorbed  his  entire  life 
for  the  moment — his  love  for  Blix,  and  his  novel.  Little 
by  little  "In  Defiance  of  Authority"  took  shape.  The 
boom  restaurant  and  the  club  of  the  exiles  were  disposed 
of,  Billy  Isham  began  to  come  to  the  front,  the  filibuster 
ing  expedition  and  Senora  Estrada  (with  her  torn 
calling-card)  had  been  introduced,  and  the  expedition 
was  ready  to  put  to  sea.  But  here  a  new  difficulty  was 
encountered. 

"What  do  I  know  about  ships?"  Condy  confessed 
to  Blix.  "If  Billy  Isham  is  going  to  command  the 
filibustering  schooner,  I've  got  to  know  something 
about  a  schooner — appear  to,  anyhow.  I've  got  to 
know  nautical  lingo — the  real  thing,  you  know.  I 
don't  believe  a  real  sailor  ever  in  his  life  said  'belay 
there,'  or  'avast.'  We'll  have  to  go  out  and  see  Captain 
Jack — get  some  more  technical  detail." 

This  move  was  productive  of  the  most  delightful 
results.  Captain  Jack  was  all  on  fire  with  interest  the 
moment  that  Condy  and  Blix  told  him  of  the  idea. 

"An'  you're  going  to  put  Billy  Isham  in  a  book. 
Well,  strike  me  straight,  that's  a  snorkin'  good  idea ! 
I've  always  said  that  all  Billy  needed  was  a  ticket- 
seller  an'  an  advance  agent,  an'  he  was  a  whole  show 
in  himself." 

"We're  going  to  send  it  east,"  said  Blix,  "as  soon  as 
it's  finished,  and  have  it  published." 


154  BLIX 

"Well,  it  ought  to  make  prime  readin',  miss;  an1 
that's  a  good  fetchin'  title,  'In  Defiance  of  Authority.'" 

Regularly  Wednesday  and  Sunday  afternoons,  Blix 
and  Condy  came  out  to  the  life-boat  station.  Captain 
Jack  received  them  in  sweater  and  visored  cap,  and 
ushered  them  into  the  front  room. 

"Well,  how's  the  yarn  getting  on?"  Captain  Jack 
would  ask. 

Then  Condy  would  read  the  last  chapter  while  the 
Captain  paced  the  floor,  frowning  heavily,  smoking 
cigars,  listening  to  every  word.  Condy  told  the  story 
in  the  first  person,  as  if  Billy  Isham's  partner  were 
narrating  scenes  and  events  in  which  he  himself  had 
moved.  Condy  called  this  protagonist  "Burke  Casso- 
wan,"  and  was  rather  proud  of  the  name.  But  the 
Captain  would  none  of  it.  Cassowan,  the  protagonist, 
was  simply  "Our  Mug." 

"Now,"  Condy  would  say,  note-book  in  hand,  "now, 
Cap,  we've  got  down  to  Mazatlan.  Now  I  want  to 
sort  of  organize  the  expedition  in  this  next  chapter." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  Captain  Jack  would  exclaim,  interested 
at  once.  "Wait  a  bit  till  I  take  off  my  shoes.  I  can 
think  better  with  my  shoes  off;"  and  having  removed 
his  shoes,  he  would  begin  to  pace  the  room  in  his  stocking 
feet,  puffing  fiercely  on  his  cigar  as  he  warmed  to  the 
tale,  blowing  the  smoke  out  through  either  ear,  gesturing 
savagely,  his  face  flushed  and  his  eyes  kindling. 

"Well,  now,  lessee.  First  thing  Our  Mug  does  when 
he  gets  to  Mazatlan  is  to  communicate  his  arrival  to 
Senora  Estrada — telegraphs,  you  know;  and,  by  the 
way,  have  him  use  a  cipher." 

"What  kind  of  cipher." 

"Count  three  letters  on  from  the  right  letter,  see. 
If  you  were  spelling  'boat,'  for  instance,  you  would 
begin  with  an  e,  the  third  letter  after  6;  then  r  for  the  o, 


BLIX  155 

r  being  the  third  letter  from  o.  So  you'd  spell  'boat/ 
erdw;  and  Senora  Estrada  knows  when  she  gets  that 
dispatch  that  she  must  count  three  letters  back  from  each 
letter  to  get  the  right  ones.  Take  now  such  a  cipher 
word  as  ulioh.  That  means  rifle.  Count  three  letters 
back  from  each  letter  of  ulioh,  and  it'll  spell  rifle.  You 
can  make  up  a  lot  of  despatches  like  that,  just  to  have 
the  thing  look  natural;  savvy  ?" 

"Out  of  sight !"  muttered  Condy,  making  a  note. 

"Then  Our  Mug  and  Billy  Isham  start  getting  a  crew. 
And  Our  Mug,  he  buys  the  sextant  there  in  Mazatlan — 
the  sextant  that  got  out  of  order  and  spoiled  every 
thing.  Or,  no;  don't  have  it  a  sextant;  have  it  a 
quadrant — an  old-fashioned,  ebony  quadrant.  Have 
Billy  Isham  buy  it  because  it  was  cheap." 

"How  did  it  get  out  of  order,  Captain  Jack?"  inquired 
Blix.  "That  would  be  a  good  technical  detail,  wouldn't 
it,  Condy?" 

"Well,  it's  like  this.  Our  Mug  an'  Billy  get  a  schooner 
that's  so  bally  small  that  they  have  to  do  their  cooking 
in  the  cabin;  quadrant's  on  a  rack  over  the  stove,  and 
the  heat  warps  the  joints,  so  when  Our  Mug  takes  his 
observation  he  gets  fifty  miles  off  his  course  and  raises 
the  land  where  the  government  forces  are  watching  for 
him." 

"And  here's  another  point,  Cap,"  said  Condy.  "We 
ought  to  work  some  kind  of  a  treasure  into  this  yarn; 
can't  you  think  up  something  new  and  original  in  the 
way  of  a  treasure?  I  don't  want  the  old  game  of  a 
buried  chest  of  money.  Let's  have  him  get  track  of 
something  that's  worth  a  fortune — something  novel." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  see  the  idea,"  answered  the  Captain, 
striding  over  the  floor  with  great  thuds  of  his  stockinged 
feet.  "Now,  lessee;  let  me  think,"  he  began,  rubbing 
all  his  hair  the  wrong  way.  "We  want  something 


156  BLIX 

new  and  queer — something  that  ain't  ever  been  written 
up  before.  I  tell  you  what !  Here  it  is !  Have  Our 
Mug  get  wind  of  a  little  river  schooner  that  sunk  fifty 
years  before  his  time  in  one  of  the  big  South  American 
rivers,  during  a  flood — I  heard  of  this  myself.  Schooner 
went  down  and  was  buried  twenty  feet  under  mud  and 
sand;  and  since  that  time — you  know  how  the  big 
rivers  act — the  whole  blessed  course  of  the  river  has 
changed  at  that  point,  and  that  schooner  is  on  dry  land, 
or  rather  twenty  feet  under  it,  and  as  sound  as  the  day 
she  chartered." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  have  it  that  when  she  sank  she  had  aboard  of 
her  a  cargo  of  five  hundred  cases  of  whisky,  prime 
stuff,  seven  thousand  quart  bottles,  sealed  up  tight  as 
drums.  Now  Our  Mug — nor  Billy  Isham,  either — they 
ain't  born  yesterday.  No,  sir;  they're  right  next  to 
themselves  !  They  figure  this  way.  This  here  whisky's 
been  kept  fifty  years  without  being  moved.  Now, 
what  do  you  suppose  seven  thousand  quart  bottles  of 
fifty-year-old  whisky  would  be  worth?  Why,  twenty 
dollars  a  quart  wouldn't  be  too  fancy.  So  there  you 
are;  there's  your  treasure.  Our  Mug  and  Billy  Isham 
have  only  got  to  dig  through  twenty  feet  of  sand  to  pick 
up  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  if  they  can  find  the 
schooner." 

Blix  clapped  her  hands  with  a  little  cry  of  delight, 
and  Condy  smote  a  knee,  exclaiming: 

"By  Jove!  That's  as  good  as  Loudon  Dodds'  opium 
ship !  Why,  Cap,  you're  a  treasure  in  yourself  for  a 
fellow  looking  for  stories." 

Then  after  the  notes  were  taken  and  the  story  talked 
over,  Captain  Jack,  especially  if  the  day  happened  to 
be  Sunday,  would  insist  upon  their  staying  to  dinner — 
boiled  beef  and  cabbage,  smoking  coffee  and  pickles— 


BLIX  157 

that  K.  D.  B.  served  in  the  little,  brick-paved  kitchen 
in  the  back  of  the  station.  The  crew  messed  in  their 
quarters  overhead. 

K.  D.  B.  herself  was  not  uninteresting.  Her  respecta 
bility  encased  her  like  armour  plate,  and  she  never 
laughed  without  putting  three  fingers  to  her  lips.  She 
told  them  that  she  had  at  one  time  been  a  "costume 
reader." 

"A  costume  reader?" 

"Yes;  reading  extracts  from  celebrated  authors  in  the 
appropriate  costume  of  the  character.  It  used  to  pay 
very  well,  and  it  was  very  refined.  I  used  to  do  'In  a 
Balcony,'  by  Mister  Browning,  and  'Laska,'  the  same 
evening,  and  it  always  made  a  hit.  I'd  do  'In  a  Balcony' 
first,  and  I'd  put  on  a  Louis-Quinze-the-fifteenth  gown 
and  wig  to  match  over  a  female  cowboy  outfit.  When 
I'd  finished  'In  a  Balcony,'  I'd  do  an  exit,  and  shunt 
the  gown  and  wig  to  match,  and  come  on  as  'Laska,' 
with  thunder  noises  off.  It  was  one  of  the  strongest 
effects  in  my  repertoire,  and  it  always  got  me  a  curtain 
call." 

And  Captain  Jack  would  wag  his  head  and  murmur: 

"Extraordinary !  extraordinary !" 

Blix  and  Condy  soon  noted  that  upon  the  occasion 
of  each  one  of  their  visits,  K.  D.  B.  found  means  to 
entertain  them  at  great  length  with  long  discussions 
upon  certain  subjects  of  curiously  diversified  character. 
Upon  their  first  visit  she  elected  to  talk  upon  the  Alps 
Mountains.  The  Sunday  following  it  was  bacteriology; 
on  the  next  Wednesday  it  was  crystals;  while  for  two 
hours  during  their  next  visit  to  the  station,  Condy  and 
Blix  were  obliged  to  listen  to  K.  D.  B.'s  interminable 
discourse  on  the  origin,  history  and  development  of  the 
kingdom  of  Denmark.  Condy  was  dumbfounded. 

"I  never  met  such  a  person,  man  or  woman,  in  all  my 


158  BLIX 

life.     Talk  about  education !     Why,  I  think  she  knows 
everything!" 

"In  Defiance  of  Authority"  soon  began  to  make  good 
progress,  but  Condy,  once  launched  upon  technical 
navigation,  must  have  Captain  Jack  at  his  elbow  con 
tinually  to  keep  him  from  foundering.  In  some  sea 
novel  he  remembered  to  have  come  across  the  expression 
"garboard  streak,"  and  from  the  context  guessed  it  was 
to  be  applied  to  a  detail  of  a  vessel's  construction.  In 
an  unguarded  moment  he  had  written  that  his  schooner's 
name  "was  painted  in  showy  gilt  letters  upon  her  gar- 
board  streak." 

"What's  the  garboard  streak,  Condy  ?"  Blix  had  asked, 
when  he  had  read  the  chapter  to  her. 

"That's  where  they  paint  her  name,"  he  declared 
promptly.  "I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I  like  the  sound 
of  it." 

But  the  next  day,  when  he  was  reading  this  same 
chapter  to  Captain  Jack,  the  latter  suddenly  inter 
rupted  with  an  exclamation  as  of  acute  physical  anguish. 

"What's  that?  Read  that  last  over  again,"  he 
demanded. 

"' When  they  had  come  within  a  few  boat-length," 
read  Condy,  "'they  were  able  to  read  the  schooner's 
name,  painted  in  showy  gilt  letters  upon  her  garboard 
streak.'" 

"My  God!"  gasped  the  Captain,  clasping  his  head. 
Then,  with  a  shout:  "Garboard  streak!  Garboard 
streak !  Don't  you  know  that  the  garboard  streak  is 
the  last  plank  next  the  keel?  You  mean  counter,  not 
garboard  streak.  That  regularly  graveled  me,  that 
did!" 

They  stayed  to  dinner  with  the  couple  that  afternoon, 
and  for  half  an  hour  afterward  K.  D.  B.  told  them  of  the 
wonders  of  the  caves  of  Elephantis.  One  would  have 


BLIX 


believed  that  she  had  actually  been  at  the  place.  But 
when  she  changed  the  subject  to  the  science  of  fortifi 
cation,  Blix  could  no  longer  restrain  herself. 

41  But  it  is  really  wonderful  that  you  should  know  all 
these  things !  Where  did  you  find  time  to  study  so 
much?" 

"One  must  have  an  education,"  returned  K.  D.  B. 
primly. 

But  Condy  had  caught  sight  of  a  half-filled  bookshelf 
against  the  opposite  wall,  and  had  been  suddenly 
smitten  with  an  inspiration.  On  a  leaf  of  his  note-book 
he  wrote:  "Try  her  on  the  G's  and  H's,"  and  found 
means  to  show  it  furtively  to  Blix.  But  Blix  was 
puzzled,  and  at  the  earliest  opportunity  Condy  himself 
said  to  the  retired  costume  reader: 

"Speaking  of  fortifications,  Mrs.  Hoskins,  Gibraltar 
now — that's  a  wonderful  rock,  isn't  it?" 

" Rock  ! "  she  queried.     ''I  thought  it  was  an  island." 

"Oh,  no;  it's  a  fortress.  They  have  a  castle  there — 
a  castle,  something  like — well,  like  the  old  Schloss  at 
Heidelberg.  Did  you  ever  hear  about  or  read  about 
Heidelberg  University  ? ' ' 

But  K.  D.  B.  was  all  abroad  now.  Gibraltar  and 
Heidelberg  were  unknown  subjects  to  her,  as  were  also 
inoculation,  Japan  and  Kosciusko.  Above  the  H's  she 
was  sound;  but  below  that  point  her  ignorance  was 
benighted. 

"But  what  is  it,  Condy?"  demanded  Blix,  as  soon  as 
they  were  alone. 

"I've  the  idea,"  he  answered,  chuckling.  "Wait  till 
after  Sunday  to  see  if  I'm  right;  then  I'll  tell  you.  It's 
a  dollar  to  a  paper  dime,  K.  D.  B.  will  have  something 
for  us  by  Sunday  beginning  with  an  I." 

And  she  had.     It  was  Internal  Revenue. 

"Right!  Right!"  Condy  shouted  gleefully,  as  he  and 


160  BLIX 

Blix  were  on  their  way  home.  "I  knew  it.  She's  done 
with  Ash — Bol,  Bol — Car,  and  all  those,  and  has  worked 
through  Cod — Dem,  and  Dem — Eve.  She's  down  to 
Hor — Kin  now,  and  she'll  go  through  the  whole  lot 
before  she's  done — Kin — Mag,  Mag — Mot,  Mot — Pal, 
and  all  the  rest." 

"The  encyclopedia?" 

"Don't  you  see  it  ?  No  wonder  she  didn't  know  beans 
about  Gibraltar  !  She  hadn't  come  to  the  G's  by  then." 

"She's  reading  the  encyclopedia." 

"And  she  gets  the  volumes  on  the  instalment  plan, 
don't  you  see?  Reads  the  leading  articles,  and  then 
springs  'em  on  us.  To  know  things  and  talk  about  'em, 
that's  her  idea  of  being  cultured.  '  One  must  have  an 
education.'  Do  you  remember  her  saying  that?  Oh, 
our  '  Matrimonial  Objects  '  are  panning  out  beyond  all 
expectation !" 

What  a  delicious,  never-to-be-forgotten  month  it  was 
for  those  two !  There  in  the  midst  of  life  they  were  as 
much  alone  as  upon  a  tropic  island.  Blix  had  deliber 
ately  freed  herself  from  a  world  that  had  grown  dis 
tasteful  to  her;  Condy  little  by  little  had  dropped  away 
from  his  place  among  the  men  and  women  of  his 
acquaintance,  and  the  two  came  and  went  together, 
living  in  a  little  world  of  their  own  creation,  happy 
in  each  other's  society,  living  only  in  the  present,  and 
asking  nothing  better  than  to  be  left  alone  and  to 
their  own  devices. 

They  saw  each  other  every  day.  In  the  morning  from 
nine  till  twelve,  and  in  the  afternoon  until  three,  Condy 
worked  away  upon  his  novel ;  but  not  an  evening  passed 
that  did  not  see  him  and  Blix  in  the  dining-room  of 
the  little  flat.  Thursday  and  Sunday  afternoons  they 
visited  the  life-boat  station,  and  at  other  times  prowled 
about  the  unfrequented  corners  of  the  city,  now  passing 


BLIX  161 

an  afternoon  along  the  water-front,  watching  the  depar 
ture  of  a  China  steamer  or  the  loading  of  the  great  steel 
wheat-ships;  now  climbing  the  ladder-like  streets  of 
Telegraph  Hill,  or  revisiting  the  Plaza,  Chinatown, 
and  the  restaurant ;  or  taking  long  walks  in  the  Presidio 
Reservation,  watching  the  cavalry  and  artillery  drills; 
or  sitting  for  hours  on  the  rocks  by  the  seashore,  watch 
ing  the  ceaseless  roll  and  plunge  of  the  surf,  the  wheeling 
sea-birds,  and  the  sleek-headed  seals  hunting  the  off 
shore  fish,  happy  for  a  half -hour  when  they  surprised 
one  with  his  prey  in  his  teeth. 

One  day,  some  three  weeks  before  the  end  of  the  year, 
toward  two  in  the  afternoon,  Condy  sat  in  his  usual 
corner  of  the  club,  behind  the  screen,  writing  rapidly. 
His  coat  was  off  and  the  stump  of  a  cigar  was  between 
his  teeth.  At  his  elbow  was  the  rectangular  block  of 
his  manuscript.  During  the  last  week  the  story  had 
run  from  him  with  a  facility  that  had  surprised  and 
delighted  him;  words  came  to  him  without  effort,  ranging 
themselves  into  line  with  the  promptitude  of  well- 
drilled  soldiery;  sentences  and  paragraphs  marched 
down  the  clean-swept  spaces  of  his  paper  like  companies 
and  platoons  defiling  upon  review;  his  chapters  were 
brigades  that  he  marshaled  at  will,  falling  them  in  one 
behind  the  other,  each  preceded  by  its  chapter  head,  like 
an  officer  in  the  space  between  two  divisions.  In  the 
guise  of  a  commander-in-chief  sitting  his  horse  upon  an 
eminence  that  overlooked  the  field  of  operations,  Condy 
at  last  took  in  the  entire  situation  at  a  glance,  and,  with 
the  force  and  precision  of  a  machine,  marched  his  forces 
straight  to  the  goal  he  had  set  for  himself  so  long  a  time 
before. 

Then  at  length  he  took  a  fresh  penful  of  ink,  squared 
his  elbows,  drew  closer  to  the  desk,  and  with  a  single 
swift  spurt  of  the  pen  wrote  the  last  line  of  his  novel, 


162  BLIX 

dropping  the  pen  upon  the  instant  and  pressing  the 
blotter  over  the  words  as  though  setting  a  seal  of 
approval  upon  the  completed  task. 

"There !"  he  muttered,  between  his  teeth;  "I've  done 
for  you  f" 

That  same  afternoon  he  read  the  last  chapter  to  Blix, 
and  she  helped  him  to  prepare  the  manuscript  for 
expressage.  She  insisted  that  it  should  go  off  that  very 
day,  and  herself  wrote  the  directions  upon  the  outside 
wrapper.  Then  the  two  went  down  together  to  the 
Wells-Fargo  office,  and  "In  Defiance  of  Authority"  was 
sent  on  its  journey  across  the  continent. 

"Now,"  she  said,  as  they  came  out  of  the  express 
office  and  stood  for  a  moment  upon  the  steps,  "now 
there's  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  the  Centennial 
Company.  I  do  so  hope  we'll  get  their  answer  before 
I  go  away.  They  ought  to  take  it.  It's  just  what 
they  asked  for.  Don't  you  think  they'll  take  it, 
Condy?" 

"Oh,  bother  that!"  answered  Condy.  "I  don't  care 
whether  they  take  it  or  not.  How  long  now  is  it  before 
you  go,  Blix?" 


XIII 

A  WEEK  passed;  then  another.  The  year  was  coming 
to  a  close.  In  ten  days  Blix  would  be  gone.  Letters 
had  been  received  from  Aunt  Kihm,  and  also  an  exquisite 
black  leather  traveling-case,  a  present  to  her  niece,  full 
of  cut-glass  bottles,  ebony-backed  brushes  and  shell 
combs.  Blix  was  to  leave  on  the  second  day  of  January. 
In  the  meanwhile  she  had  been  reading  far  into  her 
first-year  text-books,  underscoring  and  annotating, 
studying  for  hours  upon  such  subjects  as  she  did  not 
understand,  so  that  she  might  get  hold  of  her  work  the 
readier  when  it  came  to  classroom  routine  and  lectures. 
Hers  was  a  temperament  admirably  suited  to  the  study 
she  had  chosen — self-reliant,  cool  and  robust. 

But  it  was  not  easy  for  her  to  go.  Never  before  had 
Blix  been  away  from  her  home;  never  for  longer  than  a 
week  had  she  been  separated  from  her  father,  nor  from 
Howard  and  Snooky.  That  huge  city  upon  the  Atlantic 
seaboard,  with  its  vast,  fierce  life,  where  beat  the  heart 
of  the  nation,  and  where,  beyond  Aunt  Kihm,  she  knew 
no  friend,  filled  Blix  with  a  vague  sense  of  terror  and  of 
oppression.  She  was  going  out  into  a  new  life,  a  life  of 
work  and  of  study,  a  harsher  life  than  she  had  yet 
known.  Her  father,  her  friends,  her  home — all  these 
were  to  be  left  behind.  It  was  not  surprising  that  Blix 
should  be  daunted  at  the  prospect  of  so  great  a  change 
in  her  life,  now  so  close  at  hand.  But  if  the  tears  did 
start  at  times,  no  one  ever  saw  them  fall,  and  with  a 
courage  that  was  all  her  own  Blix  watched  the  last  days 
of  the  year  trooping  past,  and  the  approach  of  the  New 
Year  that  was  to  begin  the  new  life. 

163 


i64  BLIX 

But  Condy  was  thoroughly  unhappy.  Those  won 
derful  three  months  were  at  an  end.  Blix  was  going. 
In  less  than  a  week  now  she  would  be  gone.  He  would 
see  the  last  of  her.  Then  what  ?  He  pictured  himself 
— when  he  had  said  good-by  to  her  and  the  train  had 
lessened  to  a  smoky  blur  in  the  distance — facing  about, 
facing  the  life  that  must  then  begin  for  him,  returning 
to  the  city  alone,  picking  up  the  routine  again.  There 
would  be  nothing  to  look  forward  to  then ;  he  would  not 
see  Blix  in  the  afternoon;  would  not  sit  with  her  in  the 
evening  in  the  little  dining-room  of  the  flat  overlooking 
the  city  and  the  bay;  would  not  wake  in  the  morning 
with  the  consciousness  that  before  the  sun  would  set 
he  would  see  her  again,  be  with  her,  and  hear  the  sound 
of  her  voice.  The  months  that  were  to  follow  would 
be  one  long  ache,  one  long,  harsh,  colourless  grind  with 
out  her.  How  was  he  to  get  through  the  first  evening 
that  he  must  pass  alone  ?  And  she  did  not  care  for  him. 
Condy  at  last  knew  this  to  be  so.  Even  the  poor  solace 
of  knowing  that  she,  too,  was  unhappy,  was  denied  him. 
She  had  never  loved  him,  and  never  would.  He  was  a 
chum  to  her,  nothing  more.  Condy  was  too  clear-headed 
to  deceive  himself  upon  this  point.  The  time  was  come 
for  her  to  go  away,  and  she  had  given  him  no  sign,  no  cue. 

The  last  days  passed;  Blix's  trunk  was  packed,  her 
half  section  engaged,  her  ticket  bought.  They  said 
good-by  to  the  old  places  they  had  come  to  know  so  well 
— Chinatown,  the  Golden  Balcony,  the  water-front,  the 
lake  of  San  Andreas,  Telegraph  Hill,  and  Luna's — and 
had  bade  farewell  to  Riccardo  and  to  old  Richardson. 
They  had  left  K.  D.  B.  and  Captain  Jack  until  the  last 
day.  Blix  was  to  go  on  the  second  of  January.  On 
New  Year's  Day  she  and  Condy  were  to  take  their  last 
walk — were  to  go  out  to  the  life-boat  station,  and  then 
on  around  the  shore  to  the  little  amphitheatre  of  black- 


BLIX  165 

berry  bushes,  where  they  had  promised  always  to  write 
each  other  on  the  anniversary  of  their  first  visit, 
and  then  for  the  last  time  climb  the  hill  and  go  across 
the  breezy  downs  to  the  city. 

Then  came  the  last  day  of  the  old  year — the  last  day 
but  one  that  they  would  be  together.  They  spent  it  in 
a  long  ramble  along  the  water-front,  following  the  line 
of  the  shipping  even  as  far  as  Meigg's  Wharf.  They  had 
come  back  to  the  flat  for  supper,  and  afterward,  as  soon 
as  the  family  had  left  them  alone,  had  settled  themselves 
in  the  bay  window  to  watch  the  New  Year  in. 

The  little  dining-room  was  dark  but  for  the  indistinct 
blur  of  light  that  came  in  through  the  window — a  light 
that  was  a  mingling  of  the  afterglow,  the  new-risen 
moon,  and  the  faint  haze  that  the  city  threw  off  into  the 
sky  from  its  street-lamps  and  electrics.  From  where 
they  sat  they  could  look  down,  almost  as  from  a  tower, 
into  the  city's  streets.  Here  a  corner  came  into  view; 
farther  on  a  great  puff  of  green  foliage — palms  and  pines 
side  by  side — overlooked  a  wall.  Here  a  street  was 
visible  for  almost  its  entire  length,  like  a  stream  of 
asphalt  flowing  down  the  pitch  of  the  hill,  dammed  on 
either  side  by  rows  upon  rows  of  houses;  while  farther 
on  the  vague  confusion  of  roofs  and  facades  opened  out 
around  a  patch  of  green  lawn,  the  garden  of  some  larger 
residence. 

As  they  looked  and  watched,  the  afterglow  caught 
window  after  window,  till  all  that  quarter  of  the  city 
seemed  to  stare  up  at  them  from  a  thousand  ruddy  eyes. 
The  windows  seemed  infinite  in  number,  the  streets 
endless  in  their  complications;  yet  everything  was 
deserted.  At  this  hour  the  streets  were  empty,  and 
would  remain  so  until  daylight.  Not  a  soul  was  stir 
ring;  no  face  looked  from  any  of  those  myriads  of  glow 
ing  windows;  no  footfall  disturbed  the  silence  of  those 


i66  BLIX 

asphalt  streets.  There,  almost  within  call  behind  those 
windows,  shut  off  from  those  empty  streets,  a  thousand 
human  lives  were  teeming,  each  the  centre  of  its  own 
circle  of  thoughts  and  words  and  actions;  and  yet  the 
solitude  was  profound,  the  desolation  complete,  the 
stillness  unbroken  by  a  single  echo. 

The  night — the  last  night  of  the  old  year— was  fine; 
the  white,  clear  light  from  a  moon  they  could  not  see 
grew  wide  and  clear  over  the  city,  as  the  last  gleam  of 
the  sunset  faded.  It  was  just  warm  enough  for  the 
window  to  be  open,  and  for  nearly  three  hours  Condy 
and  Blix  sat  looking  down  upon  the  city  in  these  last 
moments  of  the  passing  year,  feeling  upon  their  faces  an 
occasional  touch  of  the  breeze,  that  carried  with  it  the 
smell  of  trees  and  flowers  from  the  gardens  below  them, 
and  the  faint,  fine  taint  of  the  ocean  from  far  out  beyond 
the  Heads.  But  the  scene  was  not  in  reality  silent. 
At  times  when  they  listened  intently,  especially  when 
they  closed  their  eyes,  there  came  to  them  a  subdued, 
steady  bourdon,  profound,  unceasing,  a  vast,  numb 
murmur,  like  no  other  sound  in  all  the  gamut  of  nature 
— the  sound  of  the  city  at  night,  the  hum  of  a  great, 
conglomerate  life,  wrought  out  there  from  moment  to 
moment  under  the  stars  and  under  the  moon,  while  the 
last  hours  of  the  old  year  dropped  quietly  away. 

A  star  fell. 

Sitting  in  the  window,  the  two  noticed  it  at  once, 
and  Condy  stirred  for  the  first  time  in  fifteen  minutes. 

"That  was  a  very  long  one,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"Blix,  you  must  write  to  me — we  must  write  each 
other  often." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered.  "We  must  not  forget  each 
other;  we  have  had  too  good  a  time  for  that." 

"Four  years  is  a  long  time,"  he  went  on.  "Lots  can 
happen  in  four  years.  Wonder  what  I'll  be  doing  at 


BLIX  167 

the  end  of  four  years?  We've  had  a  pleasant  time 
while  it  lasted,  Blix." 

"Haven't  we!"  she  said,  her  chin  on  her  hand, 
the  moonlight  shining  in  her  little,  dark-brown  eyes. 

Well,  he  was  going  to  lose  her.  He  had  found  out 
that  he  loved  her  only  in  time  to  feel  the  wrench  of 
parting  from  her  all  the  more  keenly.  What  was  he 
to  do  with  himself  after  she  was  gone?  What  could  he 
turn  to  in  order  to  fill  up  the  great  emptiness  that  her 
going  would  leave  in  his  daily  life  ?  And  was  she  never 
to  know  how  dear  she  was  to  him?  Why  not  speak  to 
her — why  not  tell  her  that  he  loved  her?  But  Condy 
knew  that  Blix  did  not  love  him,  and  the  knowledge 
of  that  must  keep  him  silent;  he  must  hug  his  secret  to 
him,  like  the  Spartan  boy  with  his  stolen  fox,  no  matter 
how  grievously  it  hurt  him  to  do  so.  He  and  Blix  had 
lived  through  two  months  of  rarest,  most  untroubled 
happiness,  with  hardly  more  self -consciousness  than  two 
young  and  healthy  boys.  To  bring  that  troublous, 
disquieting  element  of  love  between  them — unrequited 
love,  of  all  things — would  be  a  folly.  She  would  tell 
him — must  in  all  honesty  tell  him  that  she  did  not  love 
him,  and  all  their  delicious  camaraderie  would  end  in  a 
"scene."  Condy,  above  everything,  wished  to  look 
back  on  those  two  months,  after  she  had  gone,  without 
being  able  to  remember  therein  one  single  note  that 
jarred.  If  the  memory  of  her  was  all  that  he  was  to 
have,  he  resolved  that  at  least  that  memory  should  be 
perfect. 

And  the  love  of  her  had  made  a  man  of  him — he 
could  not  forget  that ;  had  given  to  him  just  the  strength 
that  made  it  possible  for  him  to  keep  that  resolute, 
grim  silence  now.  In  those  two  months  he  had  grown 
five  years;  he  was  more  masculine,  more  virile.  The 
very  set  of  his  mouth  was  different;  between  the  eye- 


1 68  BLIX 

"brows  the  cleft  had  deepened;  his  voice  itself  vibrated 
to  a  heavier  note.  No,  no;  so  long  as  he  should  live, 
he,  man  grown  as  he  was,  could  never  forget  this  girl 
of  nineteen  who  had  come  into  his  life  so  quietly,  so 
unexpectedly,  who  had  influenced  it  so  irresistibly  and 
so  unmistakably  for  its  betterment,  and  who  had 
passed  out  of  it  with  the  passing  of  the  year. 

For  a  few  moments  Condy  had  been  absentmindedly 
snapping  the  lid  of  his  cigarette  case,  while  he  thought; 
now  he  selected  a  cigarette,  returned  the  case  to  his 
pocket,  and  fumbled  for  a  match.  But  the  little  gun- 
metal  safe  he  carried  was  empty.  Blix  rose  and  groped 
for  a  moment  upon  the  mantel-shelf,  then  returned  and 
handed  him  a  match,  and  stood  over  him  while  he 
scraped  it  under  the  arm  of  the  chair  wherein  he  sat. 
Even  when  his  cigarette  was  lit  she  still  stood  there, 
looking  at  him,  the  fingers  of  her  hands  clasped  in  front 
of  her,  her  hair,  one  side  of  her  cheek,  her  chin  and 
sweet,  round  neck  outlined  by  the  faint  blur  of  light 
that  came  from  the  open  window.  Then  quietly  she  said  : 

"Well,  Condy?" 

"Well,  Blix?" 

"Just  'well'?"  she  repeated.  "Is  that  all?  Is  that 
all  you  have  to  say  to  me?" 

He  gave  a  great  start. 

"Blix !"  he  exclaimed. 

"Is  that  all?  And  you  are  going  to  let  me  go  away 
from  you  for  so  long,  and  say  nothing  more  than  that 
to  me?  You  think  you  have  been  so  careful — think 
you  have  kept  your  secret  so  close !  Condy,  don't  you 
suppose  I  know  ?  Do  you  suppose  women  are  so  blind  ? 
No,  you  don't  need  to  tell  me;  I  know.  I've  known  it — 
oh,  for  weeks !" 

"You  know — know — know  what?"  he  exclaimed, 
breathless. 


BLIX  169 

"That  you  have  been  pretending  that  you  did  not 
love  me.  I  know  that  you  do  love  me — I  know  you 
have  been  trying  to  keep  it  from  me  for  fear  it  would 
spoil  our  good  times,  and  because  we  had  made  up  our 
minds  to  be  chums,  and  have  'no  more  foolishness.' 
Once — in  those  days  when  we  first  knew  each  other — 
I  knew  you  did  not  love  me  when  you  said  you  did;  but 
now,  since — oh,  since  that  afternoon  in  the  Chinese 
restaurant,  remember? — I've  known  that  you  did  love 
me,  although  you  pretended  you  didn't.  It  was  the 
pretense  I  wanted  to  be  rid  of;  I  wanted  to  be  rid  of  it 
when  you  said  you  loved  me  and  didn't,  and  I  want 
to  be  rid  of  it  now  when  you  pretend  not  to  love  me 
and  I  know  you  do,"  and  Blix  leaned  back  her  head  as 
she  spoke  that  "know,"  looking  at  him  from  under  her 
lids,  a  smile  upon  her  lips.  "It's  the  pretense  that  I 
won't  have,"  she  added.  "We  must  be  sincere  with 
each  other,  you  and  I." 

"Blix,  do  you  love  me  f" 

Condy  had  risen  to  his  feet.  His  breath  was  coming 
quick,  his  cigarette  was  flung  away,  and  his  hands 
opened  and  shut  swiftly. 

"Oh,  Blixy,  little  girl,  do  you  love  me  f" 

They  stood  there  for  a  moment  in  the  half  dark, 
facing  one  another,  their  hearts  beating,  their  breath 
failing  them  in  the  tension  of  the  instant.  There  in 
that  room,  high  above  the  city,  a  little  climax  had  come 
swiftly  to  a  head,  a  crisis  in  two  lives  had  suddenly 
developed.  The  moment  that  had  been  in  prepara 
tion  for  the  last  few  months,  the  last  few  years,  the  last 
few  centuries,  behold !  it  had  arrived. 

"Blix,  do  you  love  me?" 

Suddenly  it  was  the  New  Year.  Somewhere  close 
at  hand  a  chorus  of  chiming  church-bells  sang  together. 
Far  off  in  the  direction  of  the  wharves,  where  the  great 


BLIX 


ocean  steamships  lay,  came  the  glad,  sonorous  shouting 
of  a  whistle;  from  a  nearby  street  a  bugle  called  aloud. 
And  then  from  point  to  point,  from  street  to  roof-top, 
and  from  roof  to  spire,  the  vague  murmur  of  many 
sounds  grew  and  spread  and  widened,  slowly,  grandly; 
that  profound  and  steady  bourdon,  as  of  an  invisible 
organ,  swelling,  deepening  and  expanding  to  the  full 
male  diapason  of  the  city  aroused  and  signaling  the 
advent  of  another  year. 

And  they  heard  it  —  they  two  heard  it,  standing  there 
face  to  face,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  that  unan 
swered  question  yet  between  them,  the  question  that 
had  come  to  them  with  the  turning  of  the  year.  It  was 
the  old  year  yet  when  Condy  had  asked  that  question. 
In  that  moment's  pause,  while  Blix  hesitated  to  answer 
him,  the  New  Year  had  come.  And  while  the  huge, 
vast  note  of  the  city  swelled  and  vibrated,  she  still 
kept  silent.  But  only  for  a  moment.  Then  she  came 
closer  to  him  and  put  a  hand  on  each  of  his  shoulders. 

"Happy  New  Year,  dear,"  she  said. 

On  New  Year's  Day,  the  last  day  they  were  to  be 
together,  Blix  and  Condy  took  "their  walk,"  as  they  had 
come  to  call  it  —  the  walk  that  included  the  life-boat 
station,  the  Golden  Gate,  the  ocean  beach  beyond  the 
old  fort,  the  green,  bare,  flower-starred  hills  and  downs, 
and  the  smooth  levels  of  the  golf-links.  Blix  had  been 
busy  with  the  last  details  of  her  packing,  and  they  did 
not  get  started  until  two  in  the  afternoon. 

"Strike  me!"  exclaimed  Captain  Jack,  as  Blix 
informed  him  that  she  had  come  to  say  good-by.  "  Why, 
ain't  this  very  sudden-like,  Miss  Bessemer?  Hey,  Kitty, 
come  in  here.  Here's  Miss  Bessemer  come  to  say  good- 
by  —  going  to  New  York  to-morrow." 

"We'll  regularly  be  lonesome  without  you,  miss,"  said 


BLIX  171 

K.  D.  B.,  as  she  came  into  the  front  room,  bringing 
with  her  a  brisk,  pungent  odour  of  boiled  vegetables. 
"  New  York — such  a  town  as  it  must  be  !  It  was  called 
Manhattan  at  first,  you  know,  and  was  settled  by  the 
Dutch." 

Evidently  K.  D.  B.  had  reached  the  N's. 

With  such  deftness  as  she  possessed,  Blix  tried  to  turn 
the  conversation  upon  the  first  meeting  of  the  retired 
sea  captain  and  the  one-time  costume  reader,  but  all  to 
no  purpose.  The  "Matrimonial  Objects"  were  perhaps 
a  little  ashamed  of  their  "personals"  by  now,  and 
neither  Blix  nor  Condy  were  ever  to  hear  their  version 
of  the  meeting  in  the  back  dining-room  of  Luna's 
Mexican  restaurant.  Captain  Jack  was,  in  fact,  anxious 
to  change  the  subject. 

"Any  news  of  the  yarn  yet?"  he  suddenly  inquired  of 
Condy.  "What  do  those  Eastern  publishin'  people 
think  of  Our  Mug  and  Billy  Isham  and  the  whisky 
schooner?" 

Condy  had  received  the  rejected  manuscript  of 
"In  Defiance  of  Authority"  that  morning,  accompanied 
by  a  letter  from  the  Centennial  Company. 

"Well,"  he  said  in  answer,  "they're  not,  as  you  might 
say,  falling  over  themselves  trying  to  see  who'll  be  the 
first  to  print  it.  It's  been  returned." 

" The  devil  you  say  ! "  responded  the  Captain.  "Well, 
that's  kind  of  disappointin'  to  you,  ain't  it?" 

"But,"  Blix  hastened  to  add,  "we're  not  at  all  dis 
couraged.  We're  going  to  send  it  off  again  right  away." 

Then  she  said  good-by  to  them. 

"I  dunno  as  you'll  see  me  here  when  you  come  back, 
miss,"  said  the  Captain  at  the  gate,  his  arm  around 
K.  D.  B.  "I've  got  to  schemin'  again.  Do  you  know," 
he  added  in  a  low,  confidential  tone,  "that  all  the  mines 
in  California  send  their  clean-ups  and  gold  bricks  down 


172  BLIX 

to  the  Selby  smeltin'  works  once  every  week  ?  They  send 
'em  to  San  Francisco  first,  and  they  are  taken  up  to 
Selby's  Wednesday  afternoons  on  a  little  stern-wheel 
steamer  called  the  Monticello.  All  them  bricks  are  in  a 
box — dumped  in  like  so  much  coal — and  that  box  sets 
just  under  the  wheel-house,  for'ard.  How  much  money 
do  you  suppose  them  bricks  represent?  Well,  I'll  tell 
you;  last  week  they  represented  seven  hundred  and 
eighty  thousand  dollars.  Well,  now,  I  got  a  chart  of  the 
bay  near  Vallejo;  the  channel's  all  right,  but  there  are 
mud-flats  that  run  out  from  shore  three  miles.  Enough 
water  for  a  Whitehall,  but  not  enough  for — well,  for  the 
patrol  boat,  for  instance.  Two  or  three  slick  boys,  of  a 
foggy  night — of  course,  I'm  not  in  that  kind  of  game, 
but  strike !  it  would  be  a  deal,  now,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

"Don't  you  believe  him,  miss,"  put  in  K.  D.  B. 
"  He's  just  talking  now  to  show  off." 

"I  think  your  scheme  of  holding  up  a  Cunard  liner," 
said  Condy,  with  great  earnestness,  "is  more  feasible. 
You  could  lay  across  her  course  and  fly  a  distress  signal. 
She'd  have  to  heave  to." 

"Yes,  I  been  thinkin'  o'  that;  but  look  here — what's 
to  prevent  the  liner  taking  right  after  your  schooner 
after  you've  got  the  stuff  aboard — just  followin'  you 
right  around  an'  findin'  out  where  you  land?" 

"She'd  be  under  contract  to  carry  government  mails," 
contradicted  Condy.  "She  couldn't  do  that.  You'd 
leave  her  mails  aboard  for  just  that  reason.  You 
wouldn't  rob  her  of  her  mails;  just  so  long  as  she  was 
carrying  government  mails  she  couldn't  stop." 

The  Captain  clapped  his  palm  down  upon  the  gate 
post. 

"Strike  me  straight!  I  never  thought  of  that." 


BLIX 

BLIX  and  Condy  went  on;  on  along  the  narrow  road 
upon  the  edge  of  the  salt  marshes  and  tides  that  lay 
between  the  station  and  the  Golden  Gate;  on  to  the 
Golden  Gate  itself,  and  around  the  old  rime-encrusted 
fort  to  the  ocean  shore,  with  its  reaches  of  hard,  white 
sand,  where  the  boulders  lay  tumbled  and  the  surf 
grumbled  incessantly. 

The  world  seemed  very  far  away  from  them  there  on 
the  shores  of  the  Pacific,  on  that  first  afternoon  of  the  new 
year.  They  were  supremely  happy,  and  they  sufficed 
to  themselves.  Condy  had  forgotten  all  about  the  next 
day,  when  he  must  say  good-by  to  Blix.  It  did  not  seem 
possible,  it  was  not  within  the  bounds  of  possibility, 
that  she  was  to  go  away — that  they  two  were  to  be  sepa 
rated.  And  for  that  matter,  to-morrow  was  to-morrow. 
It  was  twenty-four  hours  away.  The  present  moment 
was  sufficient. 

The  persistence  with  which  they  clung  to  the  imme 
diate  moment,  their  happiness  in  living  only  in  the 
present,  had  brought  about  rather  a  curious  condition 
of  things  between  them. 

In  their  love  for  each  other  there  was  no  thought  of 
marriage;  they  were  too  much  occupied  with  the  joy  of 
being  together  at  that  particular  instant  to  think  of  the 
future.  They  loved  each  other,  and  that  was  enough. 
They  did  not  look  ahead  further  than  the  following  day, 
and  then  but  furtively,  and  only  in  order  that  their 
morrow's  parting  might  intensify  their  happiness  of 
to-day.  That  New  Year's  Day  was  to  be  the  end  of 

173 


174  BLIX 

everything.  Blix  was  going;  she  and  Condy  would 
never  see  each  other  again.  The  thought  of  marriage — 
with  its  certain  responsibilities,  its  duties,  its  gravity,  its 
vague,  troublous  seriousness,  its  inevitable  disappoint 
ments — was  even  a  little  distasteful  to  them.  Their 
romance  had  been  hitherto  without  a  flaw;  they  had 
been  genuinely  happy  in  little  things.  It  was  as  well 
that  it  should  end  that  day,  in  all  its  pristine  sweetness, 
unsullied  by  a  single  bitter  moment,  undimmed  by  the 
cloud  of  a  single  disillusion  or  disappointment.  What 
ever  chanced  to  them  in  later  years,  they  could  at  least 
cherish  this  one  memory  of  a  pure,  unselfish  affection, 
young  and  unstained  and  almost  without  thought  of  sex, 
come  and  gone  on  the  very  threshold  of  their  lives. 
This  was  the  end,  they  both  understood.  They  were 
glad  that  it  was  to  be  so.  They  did  not  even  speak 
again  of  writing  to  each  other. 

They  found  once  more  the  little  semicircle  of  black 
berry  bushes  and  the  fallen  log,  half-way  up  the  hill 
above  the  shore,  and  sat  there  awhile,  looking  down 
upon  the  long,  green  rollers  marching  incessantly  toward 
the  beach,  and  there  breaking  in  a  prolonged  explosion 
of  solid  green  water  and  flying  spume.  And  their  glance 
followed  their  succeeding  ranks  farther  and  farther 
out  to  sea,  till  the  multitude  blended  into  the  mass — 
the  vast,  green,  shifting  mass  that  drew  the  eye  on  and 
on,  to  the  abrupt,  fine  line  of  the  horizon. 

There  was  no  detail  in  the  scene.  There  was  nothing 
but  the  great  reach  of  the  ocean  floor,  the  unbroken 
plane  of  blue  sky,  and  the  bare  green  slope  of  land — 
three  immensities,  gigantic,  vast,  primordial.  It  was 
no  place  for  trivial  ideas  and  thoughts  of  little  things. 
The  mind  harked  back  unconsciously  to  the  broad, 
simpler,  basic  emotions,  the  fundamental  instincts  of 
the  race.  The  huge  spaces  of  earth  and  air  and  water 


BLIX  175 

carried  with  them  a  feeling  of  kindly  but  enormous 
force — elemental  force,  fresh,  untutored,  new,  and 
young.  There  was  buoyancy  in  it;  a  fine,  breathless 
sense  of  uplifting  and  exhilaration;  a  sensation  as  of 
bigness  and  a  return  to  the  homely,  human,  natural  life, 
to  the  primitive  old  impulses,  irresistible,  changeless, 
and  unhampered;  old  as  the  ocean,  stable  as  the  hills, 
vast  as  the  unplumbed  depths  of  the  sky. 

Condy  and  Blix  sat  still,  listening,  looking,  and 
watching — the  intellect  drowsy  and  numb;  the  emotions, 
the  senses  all  alive  and  brimming  to  the  surface.  Vaguely 
they  felt  the  influence  of  the  moment.  Something 
was  preparing  for  them.  From  the  lowest,  untouched 
depths  in  the  hearts  of  each  of  them  something  was 
rising  steadily  to  consciousness  and  the  light  of  day. 
There  is  no  name  for  such  things,  no  name  for  the  mys 
tery  that  spans  the  interval  between  man  and  woman — 
the  mystery  that  bears  no  relation  to  their  love  for 
each  other,  but  that  is  something  better  than  love,  and 
whose  coming  savours  of  the  miraculous. 

The  afternoon  had  waned  and  the  sun  had  begun  to 
set  when  Blix  rose. 

"We  should  be  going,  Condy,"  she  told  him. 

They  started  up  the  hill,  and  Condy  said:  "I  feel  as 
though  I  had  been  somehow  asleep  with  my  eyes  wide 
open.  What  a  glorious  sunset !  It  seems  to  me  as  though 
I  were  living  double  every  minute;  and,  oh!  Blix, 
isn't  it  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world  to  love  each  other 
as  we  do?" 

They  had  come  to  the  top  of  the  hill  by  now,  and 
went  on  across  the  open,  breezy  downs,  all  starred 
with  blue  iris  and  wild  heliotrope.  Blix  drew  his  arm 
about  her  waist,  and  laid  her  cheek  upon  his  shoulder 
with  a  little  caressing  motion. 
»  "And  I  do  love  you,  dear,"  she  said — "love  you  with 


176  BLIX 

all  my  heart.  And  it's  for  always,  too;  I  know  that. 
I've  been  a  girl  until  within  the  last  three  or  four  days — 
just  a  girl,  dearest;  not  very  serious,  I'm  afraid,  and 
not  caring  for  anything  else  beyond  what  was  happening 
close  around  me — don't  you  understand?  But  since 
I've  found  out  how  much  I  loved  you  and  knew  that  you 
loved  me — why,  everything  is  changed  for  me.  I'm 
not  the  same.  I  enjoy  things  that  I  never  thought  of 
enjoying  before,  and  I  feel  so — oh,  larger,  don't  you 
know? — and  stronger,  and  so  much  more  serious.  Just 
a  little  while  ago  I  was  only  nineteen,  but  I  think,  dear, 
that  by  loving  you  I  have  become — all  of  a  sudden 
and  without  knowing  it — a  woman." 

A  little  trembling  ran  through  her  with  the  words. 
She  stopped  and  put  both  arms  around  his  neck,  her 
head  tipped  back,  her  eyes  half  closed,  her  sweet  yellow 
hair  rolling  from  her  forehead.  Her  whole  dear  being 
radiated  with  that  sweet,  clean  perfume  that  seemed  to 
come  alike  from  her  clothes,  her  neck,  her  arms,  her 
hair  and  mouth — the  delicious,  almost  divine,  feminine 
aroma  that  was  part  of  herself. 

"You  do  love  me,  Condy,  don't  you,  just  as  I  love 
you?" 

Such  words  as  he  could  think  of  seemed  pitifully 
inadequate.  For  answer  he  could  only  hold  her  the 
closer.  She  understood.  Her  eyes  closed  slowly,  and 
her  face  drew  nearer  to  his.  Just  above  a  whisper,  she 
said: 

"I  love  you,  dear !" 

"I  love  you,  Blix  !" 

And  they  kissed  each  other  then  upon  the  mouth. 

Meanwhile  the  sun  had  been  setting.  Such  a  sunset ! 
The  whole  world,  the  three  great  spaces  of  sea  and  land 
and  sky,  were  incarnadined  with  the  glory  of  it.  The 
ocean  floor  was  a  blinding  red  radiance,  the  hills  were 


BLIX  177 

amethyst,  the  sky  one  gigantic  opal,  and  they  two 
seemed  poised  in  the  midst  of  all  the  chaotic  glory  of  a 
primitive  world.  It  was  New  Year's  Day;  the  earth 
was  new,  the  year  was  new,  and  their  love  was  new  and 
strong.  Everything  was  before  them.  There  was  no 
longer  any  present.  Regrets  and  memories  had  no  place 
in  their  new  world.  It  was  Hope,  Hope,  Hope,  that 
sang  to  them  and  called  to  them  and  smote  into  life  the 
new  keen  blood  of  them. 

Then  suddenly  came  the  miracle,  like  the  flashing 
out  of  a  new  star,  whose  radiance  they  felt  but  could 
not  see,  like  a  burst  of  music  whose  harmony  they  felt 
but  could  not  hear.  And  as  they  stood  there  alone 
in  all  that  simple  glory  of  sky  and  earth  and  sea,  they 
knew  all  in  an  instant  that  they  were  for  each  other, 
forever  and  forever,  for  better  or  for  worse,  till  death 
should  them  part.  Into  their  romance,  into  their 
world  of  little  things,  their  joys  of  the  moment,  their 
happiness  of  the  hour,  had  suddenly  descended  a  great 
and  lasting  joy,  the  happiness  of  the  great,  grave  issues 
of  life — a  happiness  so  deep,  so  intense,  as  to  thrill  them 
with  a  sense  of  solemnity  and  wonder.  Instead  of  being 
the  end,  that  New  Year's  Day  was  but  the  beginning — 
the  beginning  of  their  real  romance.  All  the  fine, 
virile,  masculine  energy  of  him  was  aroused  and  ram 
pant.  All  her  sweet,  strong  womanliness  had  been 
suddenly  deepened  and  broadened.  In  fine,  he  had 
become  a  man,  and  she  a  woman.  Youth,  life,  and  the 
love  of  man  and  woman,  the  strength  of  the  hills,  the 
depth  of  the  ocean,  and  the  beauty  of  the  sky  at  sunset; 
that  was  what  the  New  Year  had  brought  to  them. 

"It's  good-by,  dear,  isn't  it?"  said  Blix. 

But  Condy  would  not  have  it  so. 

"No,   no,"   he  told  her;   "no,   Blix;  no  matter  how 


1 78  BLIX 

often  we  separate  after  this  wonderful  New  Year's  Day, 
no  matter  how  far  we  are  apart,  we  two  shall  never, 
never  say  good-by." 

"Oh,  you're  right,  you're  right !"  she  answered,  the 
tears  beginning  to  shine  in  her  little  dark-brown  eyes. 
"No;  so  long  as  we  love  each  other,  nothing  matters. 
There's  no  such  thing  as  distance  for  us,  is  there? 
Just  think,  you  will  be  here  on  the  shores  of  the  Pacific, 
and  I  on  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic,  but  the  whole  conti 
nent  can't  come  between  us" 

"And  we'll  be  together  again,  Blix,"  he  said;  "and  it 
won't  be  very  long  now.  Just  give  me  time — a  few 
years  now." 

"But  so  long  as  we  love  each  other,  time  won't  matter 
either." 

"What  are  the  tears  for,  Blixy?"  he  asked,  pressing 
his  handkerchief  to  her  cheek. 

"Because  this  is  the  saddest  and  happiest  day  of  my 
life,"  she  answered.  Then  she  pulled  from  him  with  a 
little  laugh,  adding:  "Look,  Condy,  you've  dropped 
your  letter.  You  pulled  it  out  just  now  with  your 
handkerchief. ' ' 

As  Condy  picked  it  up,  she  noted  the  name  of  the 
Centennial  Company  upon  the  corner. 

"It's  the  letter  I  got  with  the  manuscript  of  the 
novel  when  they  sent  it  back,"  he  explained. 

"What  did  they  say?" 

"Oh,  the  usual  thing.  I  haven't  read  it  yet.  Here's 
what  they  say."  He  opened  it  and  read: 

"We  return  to  you  herewith  the  MS.  of  your  novel, 
'In  Defiance  of  Authority,'  and  regret  that  our  reader 
does  not  recommend  it  as  available  for  publication  at 
present.  We  have,  however,  followed  your  work  with 
considerable  interest,  and  have  read  a  story  by  you, 


BLIX 


179 


copied  in  one  of  our  exchanges,  under  the  title,  'A 
Victory  Over  Death,'  which  we  would  have  been 
glad  to  publish  ourselves,  had  you  given  us  the 
chance. 

"Would  you  consider  the  offer  of  the  assistant  editor 
ship  of  our  Quarterly,  a  literary  and  critical  pamphlet, 
that  we  publish  in  New  York,  and  with  which 
we  presume  you  are  familiar?  We  do  not  believe 
there  would  be  any  difficulty  in  the  matter  of  financial 
arrangements.  In  case  you  should  decide  to  come  on, 
we  enclose  R.R.  passes  via  the  A.,  T.  &  S.  F.,  C.  &  A., 
and  New  York  Central, 

"Very  truly, 
"THE  CENTENNIAL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 

44  New  York." 

The  two  exchanged  glances.  But  Blix  was  too 
excited  to  speak,  and  could  only  give  vent  to  a  little, 
quivering,  choking  sigh.  The  letter  was  a  veritable  god 
from  the  machine,  the  one  thing  lacking  to  complete 
their  happiness. 

"I  don't  know  how  this  looks  to  you"  Condy  began, 
trying  to  be  calm,  "but  it  seems  to  me  that  this  is — that 
this— this— 

But  what  they  said  then  they  could  never  afterward 
remember.  The  golden  haze  of  the  sunset  somehow 
got  into  their  recollection  of  the  moment,  and  they 
could  only  recall  the  fact  that  they  had  been 
gayer  in  that  moment  than  ever  before  in  all  their 
lives. 

Perhaps  as  gay  as  they  ever  were  to  be  again.  They 
began  to  know  the  difference  between  gaiety  and  happi 
ness.  That  New  Year's  Day,  that  sunset,  marked  for 
them  an  end  and  a  beginning.  It  was  the  end  of  their 
gay,  irresponsible,  hour-to-hour  life  of  the  past  three 


i8o  BLIX 

months ;  and  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  life,  whose 
possibilities  of  sorrow  and  of  trouble,  of  pleasure  and  of 
happiness,  were  greater  than  aught  they  had  yet  experi 
enced.  They  knew  this — they  felt  it  instinctively,  as 
with  a  common  impulse  they  turned  and  looked  back 
upon  the  glowing  earth  and  sea  and  sky,  the  breaking 
surf,  the  beach,  the  distant,  rime-encrusted,  ancient 
fort — all  that  scene  that  to  their  eyes  stood  for  the 
dear,  free,  careless  companionship  of  those  last  few 
months.  Their  new-found  happiness  was  not  without 
its  sadness  already.  All  was  over  now;  their  solitary 
walks,  the  long,  still  evenings  in  the  little  dining-room 
overlooking  the  sleeping  city,  their  excursions  to  Luna's, 
their  afternoons  spent  in  the  golden  Chinese  balcony, 
their  mornings  on  the  lake,  calm  and  still  and  hot. 
Forever  and  forever  they  had  said  good-by  to  that  life. 
Already  the  sunset  was  losing  its  glory 

Then,  with  one  last  look,  they  turned  about  and  set 
their  faces  from  it  to  the  new  life,  to  the  East,  where  lay 
the  Nation.  Out  beyond  the  purple  bulwarks  of  the 
Sierras,  far  off,  the  great,  grim  world  went  clashing 
through  its  grooves — the  world  that  now  they  were  to 
know,  the  world  that  called  to  them,  and  woke  them, 
and  roused  them.  Their  little  gaieties  were  done;  the 
life  of  little  things  was  all  behind.  Now  for  the  future. 
The  sterner  note  had  struck — work  was  to  be  done;  that, 
too,  the  New  Year  had  brought  to  them — work  for  each 
of  them,  work  and  the  world  of  men. 

For  a  moment  they  shrank  from  it,  loath  to  take  the 
first  step  beyond  the  confines  of  the  garden  wherein  they 
had  lived  so  joyously  and  learned  to  love  each  other; 
and  as  they  stood  there,  facing  the  gray  and  darkening 
Eastern  sky,  their  backs  forever  turned  to  the  sunset, 
Blix  drew  closer  to  him,  putting  her  hand  in  his,  looking 
a  little  timidly  into  his  eyes.  But  his  arm  was  around 


BLIX  181 

her,  and  the  strong  young  force  that  looked  into  her 
eyes  from  his  gave  her  courage. 

"A  happy  New  Year,  dear,"  she  said. 

"A  very,  very  happy  New  Year,  Blix,"  he  answered. 


MORAN    OF    THE    LADY    LETTY 


DfBicatfU  to 

CAPTAIN   JOSEPH   HODGSON 
UNITED  STATES  LIFE  SAVING  SERVICE 


MORAN    OF   THE    LADY    LETTY 


SHANGHAIED 

THIS  is  to  be  a  story  of  a  battle,  at  least  one 
murder,  and  several  sudden  deaths.  For  that 
reason  it  begins  with  a  pink  tea  and  among  the 
mingled  odours  of  many  delicate  perfumes  and  the 
hale,  frank  smell  of  Caroline  Test  out  roses. 

There  had  been  a  great  number  of  debutantes  "  coming 
out ' '  that  season  in  San  Francisco  by  means  of  afternoon 
teas,  pink,  lavender,  and  otherwise.  This  particular 
tea  was  intended  to  celebrate  the  fact  that  Josie  Herrick 
had  arrived  at  that  time  of  her  life  when  she  was  to  wear 
her  hair  high  and  her  gowns  long,  and  to  have  a  "day" 
of  her  own  quite  distinct  from  that  of  her  mother. 

Ross  Wilbur  presented  himself  at  the  Herrick  house 
on  Pacific  Avenue  much  too  early  upon  the  afternoon 
of  Miss  Herrick 's  tea.  As  he  made  his  way  up  the 
canvased  stairs  he  was  aware  of  a  terrifying  array  of 
millinery  and  disquieting  staccato  chatter  of  feminine 
voices  in  the  parlours  and  reception-rooms  on  either  side 
of  the  hallway.  A  single  high  hat  in  the  room  that  had 
been  set  apart  for  the  men's  use  confirmed  him  in  his 
suspicions. 

"Might  have  known  it  would  be  a  hen  party  till  six 
anyhow,"  he  muttered,  swinging  out  of  his  overcoat. 
"Bet  I  don't  know  one  girl  in  twenty  down  there  now — 
all  mamma's  friends  at  this  hour,  and  papa's  maiden 


i88      MORAN    OF   THE   LADY    LETTY 

sisters,  and  Jo's  schoolteachers  and  governesses  and 
music  teachers,  and  I  don't  know  what  all. " 

When  he  went  down  he  found  it  precisely  as  he 
expected.  He  went  up  to  Miss  Herrick,  where  she 
stood  receiving  with  her  mother  and  two  of  the 
other  girls,  and  allowed  them  to  chaff  him  on  his 
forlornness. 

''Maybe  I  seem  at  my  ease,"  said  Ross  Wilbur  to 
them,  "but  really  I  am  very  much  frightened.  I'm 
going  to  run  away  as  soon  as  it  is  decently  possible,  even 
before,  unless  you  feed  me." 

"  I  believe  you  had  luncheon  not  two  hours  ago, "  said 
Miss  Herrick.  "Come  along,  though,  and  I'll  give  you 
come  chocolate,  and  perhaps,  if  you're  good,  a  stuffed 
olive.  I  got  them  just  because  I  knew  you  liked  them. 
I  ought  to  stay  here  and  receive,  so  I  can't  look  after 
you  for  long." 

The  two  fought  their  way  through  the  crowded 
rooms  to  the  luncheon-table,  and  Miss  Herrick  got 
Wilbur  his  chocolate  and  his  stuffed  olives.  They 
sat  down  and  talked  in  a  window  recess  for  a  moment, 
Wilbur  toeing-in  in  absurd  fashion  as  he  tried  to  make  a 
lap  for  his  plate. 

"  I  thought,  "  said  Miss  Herrick,  "that  you  were  going 
on  the  Ridgeways'  yachting  party  this  afternoon.  Mrs. 
Ridge  way  said  she  was  counting  on  you.  They  are 
going  out  with  the  Petrel. " 

"She  didn't  count  above  a  hundred,  though,"  an 
swered  Wilbur.  "  I  got  your  bid  first,  so  I  regretted 
the  yachting  party;  and  I  guess  I'd  have  regretted  it 
anyhow, "  and  he  grinned  at  her  over  his  cup. 

"Nice  man,"  she  said — adding  on  the  instant,  "I 
must  go  now,  Ross." 

"  Wait  till  I  eat  the  sugar  out  of  my  cup, "  complained 
Wilbur.  "Tell  mef "  he  added,  scraping  vigourously  at 


SHANGHAIED  189 

the  bottom  of  the  cup  with  the  inadequate  spoon;  "tell 
me  you're  going  to  the  hoe-down  to-night  ?" 

"  If  you  mean  the  Assembly,  yes,  I  am.  " 

"  Will  you  give  me  the  first  and  last  ? " 

"I'll  give  you  the  first,  and  you  can  ask  for  the  last 
then." 

"  Let's  put  it  down ;  I  know  you'll  forget  it. "  Wilbur 
drew  a  couple  of  cards  from  his  case. 

"Programmes  are  not  good  form  any  more,"  said 
Miss  Herrick. 

"Forgetting  a  dance  is  worse." 

He  made  out  the  cards,  writing  on  the  one  he  kept 
for  himself:  "  First  waltz— Jo. " 

"  I  must  go  back  now, "  said  Miss  Herrick,  getting  up. 

"  In  that  case  I  shall  run — I'm  afraid  of  girls.  " 

"It's  a  pity  about  you. " 

" I  am;  one  girl,  I  don't  say,  but  girl  in  the  aggregate 
like  this,"  and  he  pointed  his  chin  toward  the  thronged 
parlours.  "  It  unmans  me. " 

"Good-by,  then." 

"Good-by,  until  to-night,  about ?" 

"About  nine.  ' 

"About  nine,  then." 

Ross  Wilbur  made  his  adieu  to  Mrs.  Herrick  and  the 
girls  who  were  receiving,  and  took  himself  away.  As 
he  came  out  of  the  house  and  stood  for  a  moment  on  the 
steps,  settling  his  hat  gingerly  upon  his  hair  so  as  not  to 
disturb  the  parting,  he  was  not  by  any  means  an  ill- 
looking  chap.  His  good  height  was  helped  out  by  his 
long  coat  and  his  high  silk  hat,  and  there  was  plenty  of 
jaw  in  the  lower  part  of  his  face.  Nor  was  his  tailor 
altogether  answerable  for  his  shoulders.  Three  years 
before  this  time  Ross  Wilbur  had  pulled  at  No.  5  in 
his  'varsity  boat  in  an  Eastern  college  that  was  not 
accustomed  to  athletic  discomfiture. 


1 90      MORAN   OF   THE    LADY   LETTY 

"I  wonder  what  I'm  going  to  do  with  myself  until 
supper-time,"  he  muttered,  as  he  came  down  the  steps, 
feeling  for  the  middle  of  his  stick.  He  found  no  imme 
diate  answer  to  his  question.  But  the  afternoon  was 
fine,  and  he  set  off  to  walk  in  the  direction  of  the  town, 
with  a  half -formed  idea  of  looking  in  at  his  club. 

At  his  club  he  found  a  letter  in  his  box  from  his  par 
ticular  chum,  who  had  been  spending  the  month  shoot 
ing  elk  in  Oregon. 

"Dear  Old  Man,"  it  said,  "will  be  back  on  the  after 
noon  you  receive  this.  Will  hit  the  town  on  the  three 
o'clock  boat.  Get  seats  for  the  best  show  going — my 
treat — and  arrange  to  assimilate  nutriment  at  the 
Poodle  Dog — also  mine.  I've  got  miles  of  talk  in  me 
that  I've  got  to  reel  off  before  midnight. 

11  Yours, 

"  JERRY. 

"I've  got  a  stand  of  horns  for  you,  Ross,  that  are 
Glory  Hallelujah." 

"Well,  I  can't  go,"  murmured  Wilbur,  as  he  remem 
bered  the  Assembly  that  was  to  come  off  that  night  and 
his  engaged  dance  with  Jo  Herrick.  He  decided  that 
it  would  be  best  to  meet  Jerry  as  he  came  off  the  boat 
and  tell  him  how  matters  stood.  Then  he  resolved, 
since  no  one  that  he  knew  was  in  the  club,  and  the 
instalment  of  the  Paris  weeklies  had  not  arrived,  that  it 
would  be  amusing  to  go  down  to  the  water-front  and 
loaf  among  the  shipping  until  it  was  time  for  Jerry's 
boat. 

Wilbur  spent  an  hour  along  the  wharves,  watching 
the  great  grain  ships  consigned  to  "Cork  for  orders" 
slowly  gorging  themselves  with  whole  harvests  of  wheat 
from  the  San  Joaquin  Valley ;  lumber  vessels  for  Durban 
and  South  African  ports  settling  lower  and  lower  to  the 


SHANGHAIED  191 

water's  level  as  forests  of  pine  and  redwood  stratified 
themselves  along  their  decks  and  in  their  holds;  coal 
barges  discharging  from  Nanaimo;  busy  little  tugs 
coughing  and  nuzzling  at  the  flanks  of  deep-sea  tramps, 
while  hay  barges  and  Italian  whitehalls  came  and  went 
at  every  turn.  A  Stockton  River  boat  went  by,  her 
stern  wheel  churning  along  behind,  like  a  huge  net -reel; 
a  tiny  maelstrom  of  activity  centred  about  an  Alaska 
commercial  company's  steamboat  that  would  clear  for 
Dawson  in  the  morning. 

No  quarter  of  one  of  the  most  picturesque  cities  in  the 
world  had  more  interest  for  Wilbur  than  the  water-front. 
In  the  mile  or  so  of  shipping  that  stretched  from  the 
docks  where  the  China  steamships  landed,  down  past 
the  ferry  slips  and  on  to  Meiggs's  wharf,  every  maritime 
nation  in  the  world  was  represented.  More  than  once 
Wilbur  had  talked  to  the  loungers  of  the  wharves, 
stevedores  out  of  work,  sailors  between  voyages, 
caulkers  and  ship  chandlers'  men  looking — not  too 
earnestly — for  jobs;  so  that  on  this  occasion,  when  a 
little,  undersized  fellow  in  dirty  brown  sweater  and 
clothes  of  Barbary-coast  cut  asked  him  for  a  match  to 
light  his  pipe,  Wilbur  offered  a  cigar  and  passed  the 
time  of  day  with  him.  Wilbur  had  not  forgotten  that 
he  himself  was  dressed  for  an  afternoon  function.  But 
the  incongruity  of  the  business  was  precisely  what 
most  amused  him. 

After  a  time  the  fellow  suggested  drinks.  Wilbur 
hesitated  for  a  moment.  It  would  be  something  to 
tell  about,  however,  so,  "All  right,  I'll  drink  with  you," 
he  said. 

The  brown  sweater  led  the  way  to  a  sailor's  boarding- 
house  hard  by.  The  rear  of  the  place  was  built  upon 
piles  over  the  water.  But  in  front,  on  the  ground 
floor,  was  a  barroom. 


i92       MORAN    OF   THE    LADY   LETTY 

"Rum  an'  gum/'  announced  the  brown  sweater,  as 
the  two  came  in  and  took  their  places  at  the  bar. 

"Rum  an'  gum,  Tuck;  wattle  you  have,  sir?" 

"Oh — I  don't  know,"  hesitated  Wilbur;  "give  me 
a  mild  Manhattan." 

While  the  drinks  were  being  mixed  the  brown  sweater 
called  Wilbur's  attention  to  a  fighting  head-dress  from 
the  Marquesas  that  was  hung  on  the  wall  over  the  free 
lunch  counter  and  opposite  the  bar.  Wilbur  turned 
about  to  look  at  it,  and  remained  so,  his  back  to  the 
barkeeper,  till  the  latter  told  them  their  drinks  were 
ready. 

"Well,  mate,  here's  big  blocks  an'  taut  hawse-pipes," 
said  the  brown  sweater  cordially. 

"Your  very  good  health,"  returned  Wilbur. 

The  brown  sweater  wiped  a  thin  mustache  in  the 
hollow  of  his  palm,  and  wiped  that  palm  upon  his 
trouser  leg. 

"Yessir,"  he  continued,  once  more  facing  the  Mar 
quesas  head-dress.  "Yessir,  they're  queer  game  down 
there." 

"In  the  Marquesas  Islands,  you  mean?"  said  Wilbur. 

"Yessir,  they're  queer  game.  When  they  ain't 
tattooin'  theirselves  with  Scripture  tex's  they  get  from 
the  missionairies,  their  pullin'  out  the  hair  all  over  their 
bodies  with  two  clamshells.  Hair  by  hair,  y'  under- 
stan'." 

"Pull'n  out  'er  hair?"  said  Wilbur,  wondering  what 
was  the  matter  with  his  tongue. 

"They  think  it's  clever — think  the  women  folk 
like  it." 

Wilbur  had  fancied  that  the  little  man  had  worn  a 
brown  sweater  when  they  first  met.  But  now,  strangely 
enough,  he  was  not  in  the  least  surprised  to  see  it 
iridescent  like  a  pigeon's  breast. 


SHANGHAIED  193 

"Y'  ever  been  down  that  way?"  inquired  the  little 
man  next. 

Wilbur  heard  the  words  distinctly  enough,  but  some 
how  they  refused  to  fit  into  the  right  place  in  his  brain. 
He  pulled  himself  together  frowning  heavily. 

"What — did — you — say?"  he  asked  with  great  delib 
eration,  biting  off  his  words.  Then  he  noticed  that  he 
and  his  companion  were  no  longer  in  the  barroom,  but 
in  a  little  room  back  of  it.  His  personality  divided 
itself.  There  was  one  Ross  Wilbur — who  could  not 
make  his  hands  go  where  he  wanted  them,  who  said  one 
word  when  he  thought  another,  and  whose  legs  below 
the  knee  were  made  of  solid  lead.  Then  there  was 
another  Ross  Wilbur — Ross  Wilbur  the  alert,  who  was 
perfectly  clear  headed,  and  who  stood  off  to  one  side 
and  watched  his  twin  brother  making  a  monkey  of  him 
self,  without  power  and  without  even  the  desire  of 
helping  him. 

This  latter  Wilbur  heard  the  iridescent  sweater  say: 

"Bust  me,  if  y'  a'n't  squiffy,  old  man.  Stand  by  a 
bit  an'  we'll  have  a  ball." 

"Can't  have  got — return — exceptionally — and  the 
round  table — pull  out  hairs  wi'  tu  clamsh'ls,"  gabbled 
Wilbur's  stupefied  double ;  and  Wilbur  the  alert  said  to 
himself:  "You're  not  drunk,  Ross  Wilbur,  that's 
certain;  what  could  they  have  put  in  your  cocktail?" 

The  iridescent  sweater  stamped  twice  upon  the  floor 
and  a  trapdoor  fell  away  beneath  Wilbur's  feet  like  the 
drop  of  a  gallows.  With  the  eyes  of  his  undrugged  self 
Wilbur  had  a  glimpse  of  water  below.  His  elbow  struck 
the  floor  as  he  went  down,  and  he  fell  feet  first  into  a 
Whitehall  boat.  He  had  time  to  observe  two  men  at 
the  oars  and  to  look  between  the  piles  that  supported 
the  house  above  him  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  bay  and 
a  glint  of  the  Contra  Costa  shore.  He  was  not  in  the 


i94       MORAN    OF   THE    LADY    LETTY 

least  surprised  at  what  had  happened,  and  made  up  his 
mind  that  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  lie  down  in  the 
boat  and  go  to  sleep. 

Suddenly — but  how  long  after  his  advent  into  the 
boat  he  could  not  tell — his  wits  began  to  return  and 
settle  themselves,  like  wild  birds  flocking  again  after  a 
scare.  Swiftly  he  took  in  the  scene.  The  blue  water 
of  the  bay  around  him,  the  deck  of  a  schooner  on  which 
he  stood,  the  Whitehall  boat  alongside,  and  an  enor 
mous  man  with  a  face  like  a  setting  moon  wrangling 
with  his  friend  in  the  sweater — no  longer  iridescent. 

"What  do  you  call  it?"  shouted  the  red  man.  "I 
want  able  seamen — I  don't  figger  on  working  this  boat 
with  dancing  masters,  do  I  ?  WTe  ain't  exactly  doing 
quadrilles  on  my  quarterdeck.  If  we  don't  look  out 
we'll  step  on  this  thing  and  break  it.  It  ain't  ought  to 
be  let  around  loose  without  its  ma." 

"Rot  that,"  vociferated  the  brown  sweater.  "I  tell 
you  he's  one  of  the  best  sailor  men  on  the  front.  If  he 
ain't  we'll  forfeit  the  money.  Come  on,  Captain 
Kitchell,  we  made  show  enough  gettin'  away  as  it  was, 
and  this  daytime  business  ain't  our  line.  D'you  sign 
or  not  ?  Here's  the  advance  note.  I  got  to  duck  my 
nut  or  I'll  have  the  patrol  boat  after  me." 

"I'll  sign  this  once, "  growled  the  other,  scrawling  his 
name  on  the  note;  "but  if  this  swab  ain't  up  to  sample, 
he'll  come  back  by  freight,  an'  I'll  drop  in  on  mee  dear 
friend  Jim  when  we  come  back  and  give  him  a  real  nice 
time,  an'  you  can  lay  to  that,  Billy  Trim. " 

The  brown  sweater  pocketed  the  note,  went  over  the 
side,  and  rowed  off. 

Wilbur  stood  in  the  waist  of  a  schooner  anchored  in 
the  stream  well  off  Fisherman's  wharf.  In  the  forward 
part  of  the  schooner  a  Chinaman  in  brown  duck  was 
mixing  paint.  Wilbur  was  conscious  that  he  still  wore 


SHANGHAIED  195 

his  high  hat  and  long  coat,  but  his  stick  was  gone  and 
one  gray  glove  was  slit  to  the  button.  In  front  of  him 
towered  the  enormous  red-faced  man.  A  pungent  reek 
of  some  kind  of  rancid  fat  or  oil  assailed  his  nostrils. 
Over  by  the  Alcatraz  a  ferry-boat  whistled  for  its  slip 
as  it  elbowed  its  way  through  the  water. 

Wilbur  had  himself  fairly  in  hand  by  now.  His  wits 
were  all  about  him;  but  the  situation  was  beyond  him 
as  yet. 

"Git  for'rd,"  commanded  the  big  man. 

Wilbur  drew  himself  up,  angry  in  an  instant.  "  Look 
here,"  he  began,  "what's  the  meaning  of  this  business? 
I  know  I've  been  drugged  and  mishandled.  1  demand 
to  be  put  ashore.  Do  you  understand  that  ?" 

"Angel  child,"  whimpered  the  big  man.  "Oh,  you 
lilee  of  the  vallee,  you  bright  an'  mornin'  star.  I'm 
reely  pained,  y'  know,  that  your  vally  can't  come  along, 
but  we'll  have  your  piano  set  up  in  the  lazarette.  It 
gives  me  genuine  grief,  it  do,  to  see  you  bein'  obliged  to 
put  your  lilee  white  feet  on  this  here  vulgar  an'  dirtee 
deck.  We'll  have  the  Wilton  carpet  down  by  to-morr', 
so  we  will,  my  dear.  Yah-h !"  he  suddenly  broke  out, 
as  his  rage  boiled  over.  "Git  for'rd,  d'ye  hear!  I'm 
captain  of  this  here  bathtub,  an'  that's  all  you  need  to 
know  for  a  good  while  to  come.  I  ain't  generally  got  to 
tell  that  to  a  man  but  once;  but  I'll  stretch  the  point 
just  for  love  of  you,  angel  child.  Now,  then,  move  ! " 

Wilbur  stood  motionless — puzzled  beyond  expression. 
No  experience  he  had  ever  been  through  helped  in  this 
situation. 

"  Look  here, "  he  began,  "  I " 

The  Captain  knocked  him  down  with  a  blow  of  one 
enormous  fist  upon  the  mouth,  and  while  he  was  yet 
stretched  upon  the  deck  kicked  him  savagely  in  the 
stomach.  Then  he  allowed  him  to  rise,  caught  him  by 


i96          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

the  neck  and  the  slack  of  his  overcoat,  and  ran  him  for 
ward  to  where  a  hatchway,  not  two  feet  across,  opened 
in  the  deck.  Without  ado  he  flung  him  down  into  the 
darkness  below;  and  while  Wilbur,  dizzied  by  the  fall, 
sat  on  the  floor  at  the  foot  of  the  vertical  companion- 
ladder,  gazing  about  him  with  distended  eyes,  there 
rained  down  upon  his  head,  first  an  oilskin  coat,  then  a 
sou'wester,  a  pair  of  oilskin  breeches,  woolen  socks,  and 
a  plug  of  tobacco.  Above  him,  down  the  contracted 
square  of  the  hatch,  came  the  bellowing  of  the  Captain's 
voice: 

"There's  your  fit-out,  Mister  Lilee  of  the  Vallee,  which 
the  same  our  dear  friend  Jim  makes  a  present  of  and  no 
charge,  because  he  loves  you  so.  You're  allowed  two 
minutes  to  change,  an'  it  is  to  be  hoped  as  how  you 
won't  force  me  to  come  for  to  assist. " 

It  would  have  been  interesting  to  have  followed,  step 
by  step,  the  mental  process  that  now  took  place  in  Ross 
Wilbur's  brain.  The  Captain  had  given  him  two 
minutes  in  which  to  change.  The  time  was  short  enough 
but  even  at  that  Wilbur  changed  more  than  his  clothes 
during  the  two  minutes  he  was  left  to  himself  in  the 
reeking  dark  of  the  schooner's  forecastle.  It  was  more 
than  a  change — it  was  a  revolution.  What  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  do — precisely  what  mental  attitude  he 
decided  to  adopt,  just  what  new  niche  he  elected  wherein 
to  set  his  feet,  it  is  difficult  to  say.  Only  by  results  could 
the  change  be  guessed  at.  He  went  down  the  forward 
hatch  at  the  toe  of  Kitchell's  boot — silk-hatted,  melton- 
overcoated,  patent-booted,  and  gloved  in  suedes.  Two 
minutes  later  there  emerged  upon  the  deck  a  figure  in 
oilskins  and  a  sou'wester.  There  was  blood  upon  the 
face  of  him  and  the  grime  of  an  unclean  ship  upon  his 
bare  hands.  It  was  Wilbur,  and  yet  not  Wilbur.  In 
two  minutes  he  had  been,  in  a  way,  born  again.  The 


SHANGHAIED  197 

only  traces  of  his  former  self  were  the  patent-leather 
boots,  still  persistent  in  their  gloss  and  shine,  that 
showed  with  grim  incongruity  below  the  vast  compass 
of  the  oilskin  breeches. 

As  Wilbur  came  on  deck  he  saw  the  crew  of  the 
schooner  hurrying  forward,  six  of  them,  Chinamen 
every  one,  in  brown  jeans  and  black  felt  hats.  On  the 
quarter-deck  stood  the  Captain,  barking  his  orders. 

"  Consider  the  Lilee  of  the  Vallee, "  bellowed  the  latter 
as  his  eye  fell  upon  Wilbur  the  transformed.  "Clap 
on  to  that  starboard  windlass  brake,  sonny. " 

Wilbur  saw  the  Chinamen  ranging  themselves  about 
what  he  guessed  was  the  windlass  in  the  schooner's  bow. 
He  followed  and  took  his  place  among  them,  grasping 
one  of  the  bars. 

"Break  down!"  came  the  next  order.  Wilbur  and 
the  Chinamen  obeyed,  bearing  up  and  down  upon  the 
bars  till  the  slack  of  the  anchor-chain  came  home  and 
stretched  taut  and  dripping  from  the  hawse-holes. 

"'Vast  heavin'!" 

And  then  as  Wilbur  released  the  brake  and  turned 
about  for  the  next  order,  he  cast  a  glance  out  upon  the 
bay,  and  there,  not  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away,  her 
spotless  sails  tense,  her  cordage  humming,  her  immacu 
late  flanks  slipping  easily  through  the  waves,  the  water 
hissing  and  churning  under  her  forefoot,  clean,  gleam 
ing,  dainty,  and  aristocratic,  the  Ridgeways'  yacht, 
Petrel,  passed  like  a  thing  of  life.  Wilbur  saw  Nat 
Ridge  way  himself  at  the  wheel.  Girls  in  smart  gowns 
and  young  fellows  in  white  ducks  and  yachting  caps — 
all  friends  of  his — crowded  the  decks.  A  little  orchestra 
of  musicians  were  reeling  off  a  quickstep. 

The  popping  of  a  cork  and  a  gale  of  talk  and  laughter 
came  to  his  ears.  Wilbur  stared  at  the  picture,  his  face 
devoid  of  expression.  The  Petrel  came  on — drew  nearer 


i98          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

—was  not  a  hundred  feet  away  from  the  schooner's  stern. 
A  strong  swimmer,  such  as  Wilbur,  could  cover  the 
distance  in  a  few  strokes.  Two  minutes  ago  Wilbur 
might  have 

"Set  your  mains'l,"  came  the  bellow  of  Captain 
Kitchell.  "  Clap  on  to  your  throat  and  peak  halyards. " 

The  Chinamen  hurried  aft. 

Wilbur  followed. 


II 

A   NAUTICAL   EDUCATION 

IN  the  course  of  the  next  few  moments,  while  the 
little  vessel  was  being  got  underway,  and  while  the 
Ridge  ways'  Petrel  gleamed  off  into  the  blue  distance, 
Wilbur  made  certain  observations. 

The  name  of  the  boat  on  which  he  found  himself  was 
the  Bertha  Millner.  She  was  a  two-topmast,  twenty- 
eight -ton  keel  schooner,  forty  feet  long,  carrying  a  large 
spread  of  sail — mainsail,  foresail,  jib,  flying- jib,  two 
gaff -topsails,  and  a  staysail.  She  was  very  dirty  and 
smelt  abominably  of  some  kind  of  rancid  oil.  Her  crew 
were  Chinamen;  there  was  no  mate.  But  the  cook — 
himself  a  Chinaman — who  appeared  from  time  to  time 
at  the  door  of  the  galley,  a  potato  masher  in  his  hand, 
seemed  to  have  some  sort  of  authority  over  the  hands. 
He  acted  in  a  manner  as  a  go-between  for  the  Captain 
and  the  crew,  sometimes  interpreting  the  former's 
orders,  and  occasionally  giving  one  of  his  own. 

Wilbur  heard  the  Captain  address  him  as  Charlie.  He 
spoke  pigeon  English  fairly.  Of  the  balance  of  the  crew 
— the  five  Chinamen — Wilbur  could  make  nothing. 
They  never  spoke,  neither  to  Captain  Kitchell,  to  Charlie, 
nor  to  one  another ;  and  for  all  the  notice  they  took  of 
Wilbur  he  might  easily  have  been  a  sack  of  sand.  Wilbur 
felt  that  his  advent  on  the  Bertha  Millner  was  by  its  very 
nature  an  extraordinary  event ;  but  the  absolute  indiffer 
ence  of  these  brown-suited  Mongols,  the  blackness  of 
their  flat,  fat  faces,  the  dullness  of  their  slanting,  fish- 

199 


200          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

like  eyes  that  never  met  his  own  or  even  wandered  in 
his  direction,  was  uncanny,  disquieting.  In  what 
strange  venture  was  he  now  to  be  involved ;  toward  what 
unknown  vortex  was  this  new  current  setting,  this 
current  that  had  so  suddenly  snatched  him  from  the 
solid  ground  of  his  accustomed  life  ? 

He  told  himself  grimly  that  he  was  to  have  a  free 
cruise  up  the  bay,  perhaps  as  far  as  Alviso;  perhaps 
the  Bertha  Millner  would  even  make  the  circuit  of 
the  bay  before  returning  to  San  Francisco.  He  might 
be  gone  a  week.  Wilbur  could  already  see  the  scare- 
heads  of  the  daily  papers  next  morning,  chronicling 
the  disappearance  of  "One  of  Society's  Most  Popular 
Members." 

"That's  well,  y'r  throat  halyards.  Here,  Lilee  of  the 
Vallee,  give  a  couple  of  pulls  on  y'r  peak  halyard 
purchase. " 

Wilbur  stared  at  the  Captain  helplessly. 

"No  can  tell,  hey?"  inquired  Charlie  from  the  galley. 
"  Pullum  disa  lope,  sabe  ? " 

Wilbur  tugged  at  the  rope  the  cook  indicated. 

"That's  well,  y'r  peak  halyard  purchase,"  chanted 
Captain  Kitchell. 

Wilbur  made  the  rope  fast.  The  mainsail  was  set, 
and  hung  slatting  and  flapping  in  the  wind.  Next  the 
for'sail  was  set  in  much  the  same  manner,  and  Wilbur 
was  ordered  to  "lay  out  on  the  ji'boom  and  cast  the 
gaskets  off  the  jib."  He  "lay  out"  as  best  he  could 
and  cast  off  the  gaskets — he  knew  barely  enough  of 
yachting  to  understand  an  order  here  and  there — and 
by  the  time  he  was  back  on  the  fo'c's'le  head  the  China 
men  were  at  the  jib  halyard  and  hoisting  away. 

"That's  well,  y'r  jib  halyards. " 

The  Bertha  Millner  veered  round  and  played  off  to 
the  wind,  tugging  at  her  anchor. 


A   NAUTICAL  EDUCATION  201 

"Man  y'r  windlass. " 

Wilbur  and  the  crew  jumped  once  more  to  the  brakes. 

"  Brake  down,  heave  y'r  anchor  to  the  cathead.  " 

The  anchor-chain,  already  taut,  vibrated  and  then 
cranked  through  the  hawse-holes  as  the  hands  rose  and 
fell  at  the  brakes.  The  anchor  came  home,  dripping 
gray  slime.  A  nor' west  wind  filled  the  schooner's  sails, 
a  strong  ebb  tide  caught  her  under-foot. 

"We're  off,"  muttered  Wilbur,  as  the  Bertha  Millner 
heeled  to  the  first  gust. 

But  evidently  the  schooner  was  not  bound  up  the  bay. 

"  Must  be  Vallejo  or  Benicia,  then, "  hazarded  Wilbur, 
as  the  sails  grew  tenser  and  the  water  rippled  ever 
louder  under  the  schooner's  forefoot.  "  Maybe  they're 
going  after  hay  or  wheat.  " 

The  schooner  was  tacking,  headed  directly  for  Meigg's 
wharf.  She  came  in  closer  and  closer,  so  close  that 
Wilbur  could  hear  the  talk  of  the  fishermen  sitting  on 
the  string-pieces.  He  had  just  made  up  his  mind  that 
they  were  to  make  a  landing  there,  when 

"Standby  for  stays,"  came  the  raucous  bark  of  the 
Captain,  who  had  taken  the  wheel.  The  sails  slatted 
furiously  as  the  schooner  came  about.  Then  the  Bertha 
Millner  caught  the  wind  again  and  lay  over  quietly  and 
contentedly  to  her  work.  The  next  tack  brought  the 
schooner  close  under  Alcatraz.  The  sea  became  heavier, 
the  breeze  grew  stiff  and  smelt  of  the  outside  ocean.  Out 
beyond  them  to  westward  opened  the  Golden  Gate,  a 
bleak  vista  of  gray-green  water  roughened  with  white- 
caps. 

"  Stand  by  for  stays.  " 

Once  again,  as  the  rudder  went  hard  over,  the  Bertha 
Millner  fretted  and  danced  and  shook  her  sails,  calling 
impatiently  for  the  wind,  chafing  at  its  absence  like  a 
child  reft  of  a  toy.  Then  again  she  scooped  the  nor'- 


202  MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

wester  in  the  hollow  palms  of  her  tense  canvases  and 
settled  quietly  down  on  the  new  tack,  her  bowsprit 
pointing  straight  toward  the  Presidio. 

"We'll  come  about  again  soon,"  Wilbur  told 
himself,  "and  stand  over  toward  the  Contra  Costa 
shore. " 

A  fine,  huge  breath  of  wind  passed  over  the  schooner. 
She  heeled  it  on  the  instant,  the  water  roaring  along  her 
quarter,  but  she  kept  her  course.  Wilbur  fell  thoughtful 
again,  never  more  keenly  observant. 

"She  must  come  about  soon,"  he  muttered  uneasily, 
"  if  she's  going  to  stand  up  toward  Vallejo.  "  His  heart 
sank  with  a  sudden  apprehension.  A  nervousness  he 
could  not  overcome  seized  upon  him.  The  Bertha  Millner 
held  tenaciously  to  the  tack.  Within  fifty  yards  of 
the  Presidio  came  the  command  again : 

"  Stand  by  for  stays.  " 

Once  more,  her  bows  dancing,  her  cordage  rattling, 
her  sails  flapping  noisily,  the  schooner  came  about. 
Anxiously  Wilbur  observed  the  bowsprit  as  it  circled 
like  a  hand  on  a  dial,  watching  where  now  it  would  point. 
It  wavered,  fluctuated,  rose,  fell,  then  settled  easily, 
pointing  toward  Lime  Point.  Wilbur  felt  a  sudden 
coldness  at  his  heart. 

"This  isn't  going  to  be  so  much  fun,"  he  muttered 
between  his  teeth.  The  schooner  was  not  bound  up  the 
bay  for  Alviso  nor  to  Vallejo  for  grain.  The  track 
toward  Lime  Point  could  mean  but  one  thing.  The  wind 
was  freshening  from  the  nor'west,  the  ebb  tide  rushing 
out  to  meet  the  ocean  like  a  mill-race,  at  every  moment 
the  Golden  Gate  opened  out  wider,  and  within  two 
minutes  after  the  time  of  the  last  tack  the  Bertha  Millner 
heeled  to  a  great  gust  that  had  come  booming  in  between 
the  heads,  straight  from  the  open  Pacific. 

"  Stand  by  for  stays.  " 


A   NAUTICAL  EDUCATION  203 

As  before,  one  of  the  Chinese  hands  stood  bv  the  sail 
rope  of  the  jib. 

"Draw  y'r  jib." 

The  jib  filled.  The  schooner  came  about  on  the  port 
tack;  Lime  Point  fell  away  over  the  stern  rail.  The 
huge  ground-swells  began  to  come  in,  and  as  she  rose 
and  bowed  to  the  first  of  these  it  was  precisely  as  though 
the  Bertha  Millner  were  making  her  courtesy  to  the 
great  gray  ocean,  now  for  the  first  time  in  full  sight  of  her 
starboard  quarter. 

The  schooner  was  beating  out  to  sea  through  the 
Middle  Channel.  Once  clear  of  the  Golden  Gate,  she 
stood  over  toward  the  Cliff  House,  then  on  the  next 
tack  cleared  Point  Bonita.  The  sea  began  building  up 
in  deadly  earnest — they  were  about  to  cross  the  bar. 
Everything  was  battened  down,  the  scuppers  were  awash, 
and  the  hawse-holes  spouted  like  fountains  after  every 
plunge.  Once  the  Captain  ordered  all  men  aloft,  just  in 
time  to  escape  a  gigantic  dull-green  roller  that  broke 
like  a  Niagara  over  the  schooner's  bows,  smothering  the 
decks  knee-deep  in  a  twinkling. 

The  wind  blew  violent  and  cold,  the  spray  was  flying 
like  icy  small-shot.  Without  intermission  the  Bertha 
Millner  rolled  and  plunged  and  heaved  and  sank. 
Wilbur  was  drenched  to  the  skin  and  sore  in  every  joint, 
from  being  shunted  from  rail  to  mast  and  from  mast 
to  rail  again.  The  cordage  sang  like  harp-strings,  the 
schooner's  forefoot  crushed  down  into  the  heaving  water 
with  a  hissing  like  that  of  steam,  blocks  rattled,  the 
Captain  bellowed  his  orders,  rope-ends  flogged  the  hollow 
deck  till  it  reverberated  like  a  drumhead.  The  crossing 
of  the  bar  was  one  long  half -hour  of  confusion  and  dis 
cordant  sound. 

When  they  were  across  the  bar  the  Captain  ordered 
the  cook  to  give  the  men  their  food. 


204          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

"Git  for'rd,  sonny,"  he  added,  fixing  Wilbur  with  his 
eye.  "Git  for'rd,  this  is  tawble  dee  hote,  savy?" 

Wilbur  crawled  forward  on  the  reeling  deck,  holding 
on  now  to  a  mast,  now  to  a  belaying-pin,  now  to  a  stay, 
watching  his  chance  and  going  on  between  the  inebriated 
plunges  of  the  schooner. 

He  descended  the  fo'c's'le  hatch.  The  Chinamen  were 
already  there,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  their  bunks.  On 
the  floor,  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder,  punk-sticks  were 
burning  in  an  old  tomato  can. 

Charlie  brought  in  supper — stewed  beef  and  pork  in  a 
bread-pan  and  a  wooden  kit — and  the  Chinamen  ate  it 
in  silence  with  their  sheath-knives  and  from  tin  plates. 
A  liquid  that  bore  a  distant  resemblance  to  coffee  was 
served.  Wilbur  learned  afterward  to  know  the  stuff  as 
Black  Jack,  and  to  be  aware  that  it  was  made  from  bud 
barley  and  was  sweetened  with  molasses.  A  single 
reeking  lamp  swung  with  the  swinging  of  the  schooner 
over  the  centre  of  the  group,  and  long  afterward  Wilbur 
could  remember  the  grisly  scene — the  punk-sticks,  the 
bread-pan  full  of  hunks  of  meat,  the  horrid  close  and 
oily  smell,  and  the  circle  of  silent,  preoccupied  Chinese, 
each  sitting  on  his  bunk-ledge,  devouring  stewed  pork 
and  holding  his  pannikin  of  Black  Jack  between  his  feet 
against  the  rolling  of  the  boat. 

Wilbur  looked  fearfully  at  the  mess  in  the  pan,  recall 
ing  the  chocolate  and  stuffed  olives  that  had  been  his  last 
luncheon. 

"Well,"  he  muttered,  clenching  his  teeth,  "I've  got 
to  come  to  it  sooner  or  later.  "  His  penknife  was  in  the 
pocket  of  his  waistcoat  underneath  his  oilskin  coat. 
He  opened  the  big  blade,  harpooned  a  cube  of  pork, 
and  deposited  it  on  his  tin  plate.  He  ate  it  slowly  and 
with  savage  determination.  But  the  Black  Jack  was 
more  than  he  could  bear. 


A   NAUTICAL   EDUCATION  205 

"I'm  not  hungry  enough  for  that  just  now," 
he  told  himself.  "Say,  Jim,"  he  said,  turning  to 
the  Chinaman  next  him  on  the  bunk-ledge,  "say, 
what  kind  of  boat  is  this  ?  What  you  do — where 
you  go  ? " 

The  other  moved  away  impatiently. 

"No  sabe,  no  sabe,"  he  answered,  shaking  his  head 
and  frowning.  Throughout  the  whole  of  that  strange 
meal  these  were  the  only  words  spoken. 

When  Wilbur  came  on  deck  again  he  noted  that  the 
Bertha  Millner  had  already  left  the  whistling  buoy  astern. 
Off  to  the  east,  her  sails  just  showing  above  the  waves, 
was  a  pilot -boat  with  the  number  "  7  "  on  her  mainsail. 
The  evening  was  closing  in ;  the  Farallones  were  in  plain 
sight  dead  ahead.  Far  behind,  in  a  mass  of  shadow  just 
bluer  than  the  sky,  he  could  make  out  a  few  twinkling 
lights — San  Francisco. 

Half  an  hour  later  Kitchell  came  on  deck  from  his 
supper  in  cabin  aft.  He  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the 
mainland,  now  almost  out  of  sight,  then  took  the  wheel 
from  one  of  the  Chinamen  and  commanded:  "Ease  off 
y'r  fore  an'  main  sheets."  The  hands  eased  away  and 
the  schooner  played  off  before  the  wind. 

The  staysail  was  set.  The  Bertha  Millner  headed  to 
southwest,  bowing  easily  ahead  of  a  good  eight -knot 
breeze. 

Next  came  the  order  "All  hands  aft!"  and  Wilbur 
and  his  mates  betook  themselves  to  the  quarterdeck. 
Charlie  took  the  wheel,  and  he  and  Kitchell  began  to 
choose  the  men  for  their  watches,  just  as  Wilbur 
remembered  to  have  chosen  sides  for  baseball  during 
his  school-days. 

"Sonny,  I'll  choose  you;  you're  on  my  watch, "said 
the  Captain  to  Wilbur,  "and  I  will  assoom  the  ree- 
sponsibility  of  your  nautical  eddoocation. " 


206          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  once, "  began  Wilbur,  "that 
I'm  no  sailor." 

"But  you  will  be  soon,"  answered  the  Captain,  at 
once  soothing  and  threatening;  "you  will  be,  Mister 
Lilee  of  the  Vallee,  you  can  lay  to  it,  as  how  you  will  be 
one  of  the  best  sailor  men  along  the  front,  as  our  dear 
friend  Jim  says.  Before  I  git  throo  with  you,  you'll  be 
a  sailor  man  or  shark-bait,  I  can  promise  you.  You're 
on  my  watch;  step  over  here,  son." 

The  watches  were  divided,  Charlie  and  three  other 
Chinamen,  on  the  port,  Kitchell,  Wilbur,  and  two 
Chinamen  on  the  starboard.  The  men  trooped  forward 
again. 

The  tiny  world  of  the  schooner  had  lapsed  to  quiet. 
The  Bertha  Millner  was  now  clear  of  land,  that  lay  like  a 
blur  of  faintest  purple  smoke — ever  growing  fainter — 
low  in  the  east.  The  Farallones  showed  but  their 
shoulders  above  the  horizon.  The  schooner  was  stand 
ing  well  out  from  shore — even  beyond  the  track  of  the 
coasters  and  passenger  steamers — to  catch  the  trades 
from  the  northwest.  The  sun  was  setting  royally,  and 
the  floor  of  the  ocean  shimmered  like  mosaic.  The  sea 
had  gone  down  and  the  fury  of  the  bar  was  a,  thing  for 
gotten.  It  was  preceptibly  warmer. 

On  board,  the  two  watches  mingled  forward,  smoking 
opium  and  playing  a  game  that  looked  like  checkers. 
Three  of  them  were  washing  down  the  decks  with  kaiar 
brooms.  For  the  first  time  since  he  had  come  on  board 
Wilbur  heard  the  sound  of  their  voices. 

The  evening  was  magnificent.  Never  to  Wilbur's 
eyes  had  the  Pacific  appeared  so  vast,  so  radiant,  so 
divinely  beautiful.  A  star  or  two  burned  slowly 
through  that  part  of  the  sky  where  the  pink  began  to 
fade  into  the  blue.  Charlie  went  forward  and  set  the 
side  lights — red  on  the  port  rigging,  green  on  the  star- 


A   NAUTICAL  EDUCATION  207 

board.  As  he  passed  Wilbur,  who  was  leaning  over  the 
rail  and  watching  the  phosphorus  flashing  just  under 
the  surface,  he  said: 

"Hey,  you  go  talkee-talk  one-piecey  Boss,  savvy 
B  oss — chin-chin . ' ' 

Wilbur  went  aft  and  came  up  on  the  poop,  where 
Kitchell  stood  at  the  wheel,  smoking  an  inverted 
"Tarrier's  Delight." 

"Now,  son,"  began  Kitchell,  "I  natch'ly  love  you  so 
that  I'm  goin'  to  do  you  a  reel  favour,  do  you  twig? 
I'm  goin'  to  allow  you  to  berth  aft  in  the  cabin,  'long  o' 
me  an'  Charlie,  an'  beesides  you  can  make  free  of  my 
quarterdeck.  Mebbee  you  ain't  used  to  the  ways  of 
sailor  men  just  yet,  but  you  can  lay  it  to  that  those  two 
are  reel  concessions,  savvy?  I  ain't  a  mush-head,  like 
mee  dear  friend  Jim.  You  ain't  no  water-front  swine, 
I  can  guess  that  with  one  hand  tied  beehind  me.  You're 
a  toff,  that's  what  you  are,  and  your  lines  has  been 
laid  for  toffs.  I  ain't  askin'  you  no  questions,  but  you 
got  brains,  an'  I  figger  on  gettin'  more  out  a  you  by 
lettin'  you  have  y'r  head  a  bit.  But  mind,  now,  you  get 
gay  once,  sonny,  or  try  to  flimflam  me,  or  forget  that 
I'm  the  boss  of  the  bathtub,  an'  strike  me  blind,  I'll  cut 
you  open,  an'  you  can  lay  to  that,  son.  Now,  then,  here's 
the  game:  You  work  this  boat  'long  with  the  coolies, 
an'  take  my  orders,  an'  walk  chalk,  an'  I'll  teach  you 
navigation,  an'  make  this  cruise  as  easy  as  how-do- 
you-do.  You  don't,  an'  I'll  man-handle  you  till  y'r 
bones  come  throo  y'r  hide." 

"I've  no  choice  in  the  matter,"  said  Wilbur.  "I've 
got  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  situation." 

"I  reemarked  as  how  you  had  brains,"  muttered 
the  Captain. 

"But  there's  one  thing,"  continued  Wilbur;  "if  I'm 
to  have  my  head  a  little,  as  you  say,  you'll  find  we  can 


208          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

get  along  better  if  you  put  me  to  rights  about  this 
whole  business.  Why  was  I  brought  aboard,  why  are 
there  only  Chinese  along,  where  are  we  going,  what  are 
we  going  to  do,  and  how  long  are  we  going  to  be  gone  ?" 

Kitchell  spat  over  the  side,  and  then  sucked  the 
nicotine  from  his  mustache. 

"Well,"  he  said,  resuming  his  pipe,  "it's  like  this,  son. 
"This  ship  belongs  to  one  of  the  Six  Chinese  companies 
of  Chinatown  in  Frisco.  Charlie,  here,  is  one  of  the 
shareholders  in  the  business.  We  go  down  here  twice  a 
year  off  Cape  Sain*  Lucas,  Lower  California,  an'  fish  for 
blue  sharks,  or  white,  if  we  kin  ketch  'em.  We  get  the 
livers  of  these  an'  try  out  the  oil,  an'  we  bring  back 
that  same  oil,  an'  the  Chinamen  sell  it  all  over  San 
Francisco  as  simon-pure  cod-liver  oil,  savvy?  An'  it 
pays  like  a  nitrate  bed.  I  come  in  because  it's  a  Custom- 
House  regulation  that  no  coolie  can  take  a  boat  out  of 
Frisco." 

"And  how  do  I  come  in?"  asked  Wilbur. 

"Mee  dear  friend  Jim  put  a  knock-me-out  drop  into 
your  Manhattan  cocktail.  It's  a  capsule  filled  with  a 
drug.  You  were  shanghaied,  son,"  said  the  Captain, 
blandly. 

About  an  hour  later  Wilbur  turned  in.  Kitchell 
showed  him  his  bunk  with  its  "donkey's  breakfast" 
and  single  ill-smelling  blanket.  It  was  located  under 
the  companion-way  that  led  down  into  the  cabin. 
Kitchell  bunked  on  one  side,  Charlie  on  the  other.  A 
hacked  deal  table,  covered  with  oilcloth  and  ironed  to 
the  floor,  a  swinging-lamp,  two  chairs,  a  rack  of  books, 
a  chest  or  two,  and  a  flaring  picture  cut  from  the  adver 
tisement  of  a  ballet,  was  the  room's  inventory  in  the 
matter  of  furniture  and  ornament. 

Wilbur  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk  before  undressing, 


A  NAUTICAL  EDUCATION  209 

reviewing  the  extraordinary  events  of  the  day.  In  a 
moment  he  was  aware  of  a  movement  in  one  of  the  other 
two  bunks,  and  presently  made  out  Charlie  lying  on  his 
side  and  holding  in  the  flame  of  an  alcohol  lamp  a  skewer 
on  which  some  brown  and  sticky  stuff  boiled  and  sizzled. 
He  transferred  the  stuff  to  the  bowl  of  a  huge  pipe  and 
drew  on  it  noisily  once  or  twice.  In  another  moment 
he  had  sunk  back  in  his  bunk,  nearly  senseless,  but  with 
a  long  breath  of  an  almost  blissful  contentment. 

"Beast !"  muttered  Wilbur,  with  profound  disgust. 

He  threw  off  his  oilskin  coat  and  felt  in  the  pocket  of 
his  waistcoat  (which  he  had  retained  when  he  had 
changed  his  clothes  in  the  fo'c's  'le)  for  his  watch.  He 
drew  it  out.  It  was  just  nine  o'clock.  All  at  once 
an  idea  occurred  to  him.  He  fumbled  in  another  pocket 
of  the  waistcoat  and  brought  out  one  of  his  calling-cards. 

For  a  moment  Wilbur  remained  motionless,  seated  on 
the  bunk-ledge,  smiling  grimly,  while  his  glance  wandered 
now  to  the  sordid  cabin  of  the  Bertha  Millner  and  the 
opium-drugged  coolie  sprawled  on  the  ''donkey's  break 
fast,"  and  now  to  the  card  in  his  hand  on  which  a  few 
hours  ago  he  had  written: 

"First  waltz— Jo." 


Ill 

THE  LADY  LETTY 

ANOTHER  day  passed,  then  two.  Before  Wilbur 
knew  it  he  had  settled  himself  to  his  new  life,  and  woke 
one  morning  to  the  realization  that  he  was  positively 
enjoying  himself.  Daily  the  weather  grew  warmer. 
The  fifth  day  out  from  San  Francisco  it  was  actually 
hot.  The  pitch  grew  soft  in  the  Bertha  Millner's  deck 
seams,  the  masts  sweated  resin.  The  Chinamen  went 
about  the  decks  wearing  but  their  jeans  and  blouses. 
Kitchell  had  long  since  abandoned  his  coat  and  vest. 
Wilbur's  oilskins  became  intolerable,  and  he  was  at 
last  constrained  to  trade  his  pocket-knife  to  Charlie  for 
a  suit  of  jeans  and  wicker  sandals,  such  as  the  coolies 
wore — and  odd  enough  he  looked  in  them. 

The  Captain  instructed  him  in  steering,  and  even 
promised  to  show  him  the  use  of  the  sextant  and  how  to 
take  an  observation  in  the  fake  short  and  easy  coasting 
style  of  navigation.  Furthermore,  he  showed  him  how 
to  read  the  log  and  the  manner  of  keeping  the  dead 
reckoning. 

During  most  of  his  watches  Wilbur  was  engaged  in 
painting  the  inside  of  the  cabin,  door  panels,  lintels,  and 
the  few  scattered  moldings;  and  toward  the  middle  of 
the  first  week  out,  when  the  Bertha  Millner  was  in  the 
latitude  of  Point  Conception,  he  and  three  Chinamen, 
under  Kitchell's  direction,  ratlined  down  the  forerigging 
and  affixed  the  crow's  nest  upon  the  for'mast.  The  next 
morning,  during  Charlie's  watch  on  deck,  a  Chinaman  was 

210 


THE   LADY   LETTY  211 

sent  up  into  the  crow's  nest,  and  from  that  time  there 
was  always  a  lookout  maintained  from  the  masthead. 

More  than  once  Wilbur  looked  around  him  at  the 
empty  coruscating  indigo  of  the  ocean  floor,  wondering 
at  the  necessity  of  the  lookout,  and  finally  expressed  his 
curiosity  to  Kitchell.  The  Captain  had  by  now  taken 
not  a  little  to  Wilbur ;  at  first  for  the  sake  of  a  white  man's 
company,  and  afterward  because  he  began  to  place  a 
certain  vague  reliance  upon  Wilbur's  judgment.  Kitchell 
had  ree-marked  as  how  he  had  brains. 

"Well,  you  see,  son,"  Kitchell  had  explained  to 
Wilbur,  ' '  os-tensiblee  we  are  after  shark-liver  oil — and 
so  we  are;  but  also  we  are  on  any  lay  that  turns  up; 
ready  for  any  game,  from  wrecking  to  barratry.  Strike 
me,  if  I  haven't  thought  of  scuttling  the  dough-dish  for 
her  insoorance.  There's  regular  trade,  son,  to  be  done 
in  ships,  and  then  there's  pickin's,  an'  pickin's.  Lord, 
the  ocean's  rich  with  pickin's.  Do  you  know  there's 
millions  made  out  of  the  day-bree  and  refuse  of  a  big 
city?  How  about  an  ocean's  day-bree,  just  chew  on 
that  notion  a  turn;  an'  as  fur  a  lookout,  lemmee  tell  you, 
son,  cast  your  eye  out  yon, "  and  he  swept  the  sea  with  a 
forearm;  "nothin',  hey,  so  it  looks,  but  lemmee  tell  you, 
son,  there  ain't  no  manner  of  place  on  the  ball  of  dirt 
where  you're  likely  to  run  up  afoul  of  so  many  things — 
unexpected  things — as  at  sea.  When  you're  clear  o' 
land  lay  to  this  here  pree-cep',  'A  million  to  one  on  the 
unexpected.'  ' 

The  next  day  fell  almost  dead  calm.  The  hale,  lusty- 
lunged  nor'wester  that  had  snorted  them  forth  from  the 
Golden  Gate  had  lapsed  to  a  zephyr,  the  schooner  rolled 
lazily  southward  with  the  leisurely  nonchalance  of  a 
grazing  ox.  At  noon,  just  after  dinner,  a  few  cat's-paws 
cuddled  the  milky-blue  whiteness  of  the  glassy  surface, 
and  the  water  once  more  began  to  talk  beneath  the  bow- 


2 1 2          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

sprit.  It  was  very  hot.  The  sun  spun  silently  like  a 
spinning  brass  discus  over  the  mainmast.  On  the 
fo'c's'le  head  the  Chinamen  were  asleep  or  smoking 
opium.  It  was  Charlie's  watch.  Kitchell  dozed  in  his 
hammock  in  the  shadow  of  the  mainsheet.  Wilbur  was 
below  tinkering  with  his  paint-pot  about  the  cabin. 
The  stillness  was  profound.  It  was  the  stillness  of  the 
summer  sea  at  high  noon. 

The  lookout  in  the  crow's  nest  broke  the  quiet. 

"Hy-yah,  hy-yah  !"  he  cried,  leaning  from  the  barrel 
and  calling  through  an  arched  palm.  "Hy-yah,  one, 
two,  plenty,  many  tortle,  topside  wattah;  hy-yah,  all- 
same  tortle. " 

" Hallo,  hallo!"  cried  the  Captain,  rolling  from  his 
hammock .  ' '  Turtle  ?  Wher  e-away  ? ' ' 

"I  tink-um  'bout  quallah  mile,  meb-bee,  four-piecee 
tortle  all-same  weatha  bow. " 

"Turtle,  hey?  Down  y'r  wheel,  Jim;  haul  y'r  jib  to 
win'ward,"  he  commanded  the  man  at  the  wheel;  then 
to  the  men  forward:  "Get  the  dory  overboard.  Son, 
Charlie,  and  you,  Wing,  tumble  in.  Wake  up,  now,  and 
see  you  stay  so." 

The  dory  was  swung  over  the  side,  and  the  men 
dropped  into  her  and  took  their  places  at  the  oars. 
"Give  way,"  cried  the  Captain,  settling  himself  in 
the  bow  with  the  gaff  in  his  hand.  "Hey,  Jim!"  he 
shouted  to  the  lookout  far  above,  "hey,  lay  our  course 
for  us." 

The  lookout  nodded,  the  oars  fell,  and  the  dory 
shot  forward  in  the  direction  indicated  by  the  lookout. 

"Kin  you  row,  son?"  asked  Kitchell,  with  sudden 
suspicion.  Wilbur  smiled. 

"You  ask  Charlie  and  Wing  to  ship  their  oars  and 
give  me  a  pair. " 

The  Captain  complied,  hesitating. 


THE   LADY  LETTY  213 

"Now,  what,"  he  said  grimly,  "now,  what  do  you 
think  you're  going  to  do,  sonny?" 

"I'm  going  to  show  you  the  Bob  Cook  stroke  we  used 
in  our  boat  in  '95,  when  we  beat  Harvard,"  answered 
Wilbur. 

Kitchell  gazed  doubtfully  at  the  first  few  strokes,  then 
with  growing  interest  watched  the  tremendous  reach, 
the  powerful  knee-drive,  the  swing,  the  easy  catch,  and 
the  perfect  recover.  The  dory  was  cutting  the  water 
like  a  gasoline  launch,  and  between  strokes  there  was  the 
least  possible  diminishing  of  the  speed. 

"I'm  a  bit  out  of  form  just  now,"  remarked  Wilbur, 
"and  I'm  used  to  the  sliding  seat;  but  I  guess  it'll  do." 
Kitchell  glanced  at  the  human  machine  that  once  was 
No.  5  in  the  Yale  boat,  and  then  at  the  water  hissing  from 
the  dory's  bows.  "  My  Gawd  ! "  he  said,  under  his  breath. 
He  spat  over  the  bows  and  sucked  the  nicotine  from  his 
mustache,  thoughtfully.  "I  ree-marked, "  he  observed, 
"as  how  you  had  brains,  my  son. " 

A  few  minutes  later  the  Captain,  who  was  standing  in 
the  dory's  bow  and  alternately  conning  the  ocean's  sur 
face  and  looking  back  to  the  Chinaman  standing  on  the 
schooner's  masthead,  uttered  an  exclamation: 

"Steady,  ship  your  oars,  quiet  now,  quiet,  you  damn 
fools !  We're  right  on  'em — four,  by  Gawd,  an'  big  as 
dinin'-tables  !" 

The  oars  were  shipped.  The  dory's  speed  dwindled. 
"Out  your  paddles,  sit  on  the  gun'l,  and  paddle 
ee-asy. " 

The  hands  obeyed.  The  Captain's  voice  dropped  to 
a  whisper.  His  back  was  toward  them  and  he  gestured 
with  one  free  hand.  Looking  out  over  the  water  from 
his  seat  on  the  gun'l,  Wilbur  could  make  out  a  round, 
greenish  mass  like  a  patch  of  floating  seaweed,  just  under 
the  surface,  some  sixty  yards  ahead. 


2 1 4          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETT Y 

"Easy  sta'board, "  whispered  the  Captain  under  his 
elbow.  "Go  ahead,  port;  e-e-easy  all,  steady,  steady." 

The  affair  began  to  assume  the  intensity  of  a  little 
drama — a  little  drama  of  midocean.  In  spite  of  himself, 
Wilbur  was  excited.  He  even  found  occasion  to  observe 
that  the  life  was  not  so  bad,  after  all.  This  was  as  good 
fun  as  stalking  deer.  The  dory  moved  forward  by 
inches.  Kitchen's  whisper  was  as  faint  as  a  dying 
infant's:  "Steady  all,  s-stead-ee,  sh-stead " 

He  lunged  forward  sharply  with  the  gaff,  and  shouted 
aloud:  "I  got  him — grab  holt  his  tail  nippers,  you  fool 
swabs;  grab  holt  quick — don't  you  leggo — got  him 
there,  Charlie?  If  he  gets  away,  you  swine,  I'll  rip  y' 
open  with  the  gaff  !  Heave  now — heave — there — there 
— soh,  stand  clear  his  nippers.  Strike  me !  he's  a 
whacker.  I  thought  he  was  going  to  get  away.  Saw 
me  just  as  I  swung  the  gaff,  an'  ducked  his  nut." 

Over  the  side,  bundled  without  ceremony  into  the 
boat,  clawing,  thrashing,  clattering,  and  blowing  like 
the  exhaust  of  a  donkey-engine,  tumbled  the  great 
green  turtle,  his  wet,  green  shield  of  shell  three  feet 
from  edge  to  edge,  the  gaff  firmly  transfixed  in  his  body, 
just  under  the  fore-flipper.  From  under  his  shell 
protruded  his  snake-like  head  and  neck,  withered  like 
that  of  an  old  man.  He  was  waving  his  head  from 
side  to  side,  the  jaws  snapping  like  a  snapped  silk  hand 
kerchief.  Kitchell  thrust  him  away  with  a  paddle. 
The  turtle  craned  his  neck,  and,  catching  the  bit  of  wood 
in  his  jaw,  bit  it  in  two  in  a  single  grip. 

"I  to!'  you  so,  I  tol'  you  to  stand  clear  his  snapper. 
If  that  had  been  your  shin  now,  eh  ?  Hallo,  what's  that  ?" 

Faintly  across  the  water  came  a  prolonged  hallooing 
from  the  schooner.  Kitchell  stood  up  in  the  dory, 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  hat. 

"What's  biting  'em  now?"  he  muttered,  with  the 


THE   LADY   LETTY  215 

uneasiness  of  a  captain  away  from  his  ship.  "Oughta 
left  Charlie  on  board — or  you,  son.  Who's  doin'  that 
yellin',  I  can't  make  out." 

"Up  in  the  crow's  nest,"  exclaimed  Wilbur.  "It's 
Jim;  see,  he's  waving  his  arms." 

"Well,  whaduz  he  wave  his  dam'  fool  arms  for?" 
growled  Kitchell,  angry  because  something  was  going 
forward  he  did  not  understand. 

"There,  he's  shouting  again.  Listen — I  can't  make 
out  what  he's  yelling." 

"He'll  yell  to  a  different  pipe  when  I  get  my  grip  of 
him.  I'll  twist  the  head  of  that  swab  till  he'll  have 
to  walk  back'ard  to  see  where  he's  goin'.  Whaduz 
he  wave  his  arms  for — whaduz  he  yell  like  a  dam' 
phillyloo  bird  for?  What's  him  say,  Charlie?" 

"Jim  heap  sing,  no  can  tell.  Mebbee — tinkum  sing, 
come  back  chop-chop." 

"We'll  see.  Oars  out,  men,  give  way.  Now,  son,  put 
a  little  o'  that  Yale  stingo  in  the  stroke." 

In  the  crow's  nest  Jim  still  yelled  and  waved  like 
one  distraught,  while  the  dory  returned  at  a  smart  clip 
toward  the  schooner.  Kitchell  lathered  with  fury. 

"Oh-h,"  he  murmured  softly  through  his  gritted 
teeth.  "Jess  lemmee  lay  mee  two  hands  afoul  of  you 
wunst,  you  gibbering,  yellow  phillyloo  bird,  believe  me, 
you'll  dance.  Shut  up  !"  he  roared;  "shut  up,  you  crazy 
do-do,  ain't  we  coming  fast  as  we  can?" 

The  dory  bumped  alongside,  and  the  Captain  was  over 
the  rail  like  quicksilver.  The  hands  were  all  in  the 
bow,  looking  and  pointing  to  the  west.  Jim  slid  down 
the  ratlines,  bubbling  over  with  suppressed  news. 
Before  his  feet  had  touched  the  deck  Kitchell  had 
kicked  him  into  the  stays  again,  fulminating  blasphemies. 

"Sing!"  he  shouted,  as  the  Chinaman  clambered 
away  like  a  bewildered  ape;  "sing  a  little  more.  I 


2i6          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

would  if  I  were  you.  Why  don't  you  sing  and  wave, 
you  dam'  fool  phillyloo  bird?" 

"Yes,  sah,"  answered  the  coolie. 

"What  you  yell  for?  Charlie,  ask  him  whaffo  him 
sing." 

"I  tink-um  ship,"  answered  Charlie  calmly,  looking 
out  over  the  starboard  quarter. 

"Ship  !" 

"Him  velly  sick,"  hazarded  the  Chinaman  from 
the  ratlines,  adding  a  sentence  in  Chinese  to  Charlie. 

"He  says  he  tink-um  ship  sick,  all  same;  ask  um 
something — ship  velly  sick." 

By  this  time  the  Captain,  Wilbur,  and  all  on  board 
could  plainly  make  out  a  sail  some  eight  miles  off  the 
starboard  bow.  Even  at  that  distance,  and  to  eyes 
so  inexperienced  as  those  of  Wilbur,  it  needed  but  a 
glance  to  know  that  something  was  wrong  with  her.  It 
was  not  that  she  failed  to  ride  the  waves  with  even 
keel,  it  was  not  that  her  rigging  was  in  disarray,  nor 
that  her  sails  were  disordered.  Her  distance  was  too 
great  to  make  out  such  details.  But  in  precisely  the 
same  manner  as  a  trained  physician  glances  at  a  doomed 
patient,  and  from  that  indefinable  look  in  the  face  of 
him  and  the  eyes  of  him  pronounces  the  verdict  "death," 
so  Kitchell  took  in  the  stranger  with  a  single  compre 
hensive  glance,  and  exclaimed: 

"Wreck!" 

"Yas,  sah.     I  tink-um  velly  cick." 

"Oh,  go  to  '11,  or  go  below  and  fetch  up  my  glass — 
hustle!" 

The  glass  was  brought.  "Son,"  exclaimed  Kitchell — 
"where  is  that  man  with  the  brains?  Son,  come  aloft 
here  with  me."  The  two  clambered  up  the  ratlines  to 
the  crow's  nest.  Kitchell  adjusted  the  glass. 

"She's    a    bark,"    he    muttered,    "iron    built — about 


THE   LADY   LETTY  217 

seven  hundred  tons,  I  guess — in  distress.  There's  her 
ensign  upside  down  at  the  mizz'nhead — looks  like 
Norway — an'  her  distress  signals  on  the  spanker  gaff. 
Take  a  blink  at  her,  son — what  do  you  make  her  out  ? 
Lord,  she's  ridin'  high." 

Wilbur  took  the  glass,  catching  the  stranger  after 
several  clumsy  attempts.  She  was,  as  Captain  Kitchell 
had  announced,  a  bark,  and,  to  judge  by  her  flag,  evi 
dently  Norwegian. 

"How  she  rolls  !"  muttered  Wilbur. 

"That's  what  I  can't  make  out,"  answered  Kitchell. 
"A  bark  such  as  she  ain't  ought  to  roll  thata  way;  her 
ballast  'd  steady  her." 

"What's  the  flags  on  that  boom  aft — one's  red  and 
white  and  square-shaped,  and  the  other's  the  same 
colour,  only  swallow-tail  in  shape?" 

"That's  H.  B.,  meanin':  'I  am  in  need  of  assistance.'  ' 

"Well,  where's  the  crew?  I  don't  see  anybody  on 
board." 

"Oh,  they're  there  right  enough." 

"Then  they're  pretty  well  concealed  about  the  prem 
ises,"  returned  Wilbur,  as  he  passed  the  glass  to  the 
Captain. 

"She  does  seem  kinda  empty,"  said  the  Captain  in  a 
moment,  with  a  sudden  show  of  interest  that  Wilbur 
failed  to  understand. 

"An'  where's  her  boats?"  continued  Kitchell.  "I 
don't  just  quite  make  out  any  boats  at  all."  There 
was  a  long  silence. 

"Seems  to  be  a  sort  of  haze  over  her,"  observed 
Wilbur. 

"I  noticed  that,  air  kinda  quivers  oily-like.  No  boats, 
no  boats — an'  I  can't  see  anybody  aboard."  Suddenly 
Kitchell  lowered  the  glass  and  turned  to  Wilbur.  He 
was  a  different  man.  There  was  a  new  shine  in  liis  eyes, 


2 1 8          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

a  wicked  line  appeared  over  the  nose,  the  jaw  grew 
salient,  prognathous. 

"Son,"  he  exclaimed,  gimleting  Wilbur  with  his  con 
tracted  eyes;  "  I  have  ree-marked  as  how  you  had  brains. 
I  kin  fool  the  coolies,  but  I  can't  fool  you.  It  looks  to 
me  as  jf  that  bark  yonder  was  a  derelict;  an'  do  you 
know  what  that  means  to  us  ?  Chaw  on  it  a  turn.  " 

"A   derelict?" 

"If  there's  a  crew  on  board  they're  concealed  from  the 
public  gaze — an'  where  are  the  boats  then?  I  figger 
she's  an  abandoned  derelict.  Do  you  know  what  that 
•means  for  us — for  you  and  I  ?  It  means, "  and  gripping 
Wilbur  by  the  shoulders,  he  spoke  the  word  into  his 
face  with  a  savage  intensity.  "It  means  salvage,  do 
you  savvy? — salvage,  salvage.  Do  you  figure  what 
salvage  on  a  seven-hundred-tonner  would  come  to? 
Well,  just  lemmee  drop  it  into  your  think  tank,  an'  lay 
to  what  I  say.  It's  all  the  ways  from  fifty  to  seventy 
thousand  dollars,  whatever  her  cargo  is;  call  it  sixty 
thousand — thirty  thou'  apiece.  Oh,  I  don't  know!" 
he  exclaimed,  lapsing  to  landsman's  slang.  "Wha'd  I 
say  about  a  million  to  one  on  the  unexpected  at  sea  ? " 

"Thirty  thousand!"  exclaimed  Wilbur,  without 
thought  as  yet. 

"Now  y'r  singin'  songs,"  cried  the  Captain.  "Listen 
to  me,  son, "  he  went  on,  rapidly  shutting  up  the  glass 
and  thrusting  it  back  in  the  case;  "my  name's  Kitchell, 
and  I'm  hog  right  through.  "  He  emphasized  the  words 
with  a  leveled  forefinger,  his  eyes  flashing.  "H — O — G 
spells  very  truly  yours,  Alvinza  Kitchell — ninety-nine 
swine  an'  me  make  a  hundred  swine.  I'm  a  shoat  with 
both  feet  in  the  trough,  first,  last,  an'  always.  If  that 
bark's  abandoned,  an'  I  says  she  is,  she's  ours.  I'm 
out  for  anything  that  there's  stuff  in.  I  guess  I'm  more 
of  a  beachcomber  by  nature  than  anything  else.  If 


THE   LADY   LETTY  219 

she's  abandoned  she  belongs  to  us.  To  '11  with  this  coolie 
game.  We'll  go  beachcombin',  you  an' I.  We'll  board 
that  bark  and  work  her  into  the  nearest  port — San  Diego, 
I  guess — and  get  the  salvage  on  her  if  we  have  to  swim 
in  her.  Are  you  with  me? "  he  held  out  his  hand.  The 
man  was  positively  trembling  from  head  to  heel.  It 
was  impossible  to  resist  the  excitement  of  the  situation, 
its  novelty — the  high  crow's  nest  of  the  schooner,  the 
keen  salt  air,  the  Chinamen  grouped  far  below,  the 
indigo  of  the  warm  ocean,  and  out  yonder  the  forsaken 
derelict,  rolling  her  light  hull  till  the  garboard  streak 
flashed  in  the  sun. 

"Well,  of  course,  I'm  with  you,  Cap,"  exclaimed 
Wilbur,  gripping  Kitchell's  hand.  "When  there's 
thirty  thousand  to  be  had  for  the  asking  I  guess  I'm  a 
'na'chel  bawn'  beachcomber  myself. " 

"Now,  nothing  about  this  to  the  coolies. " 

"But  how  will  you  make  out  with  your  owners,  the 
Six  Companies  ?  Aren't  you  bound  to  bring  the  Bertha 
in?" 

"Rot  my  owners!"  exclaimed  Kitchell.  "I  ain't 
a  skipper  of  no  oil-boat  any  longer.  I'm  a  beach 
comber."  He  fixed  the  wallowing  bark  with  glistening 
eyes.  "Gawd  strike  me,"  he  murmured,  "ain't  she  a 
daisy?  It's  a  little  Klondike.  Come  on,  son. " 

The  two  went  down  the  ratlines,  and  Kitchell  ordered 
a  couple  of  the  hands  into  the  dory  that  had  been  rowing 
astern.  He  and  Wilbur  followed.  Charlie  was  left  on 
board,  with  direction  to  lay  the  schooner  to.  The  dory 
flew  over  the  water,  Wilbur  setting  the  stroke.  In  a 
few  moments  she  was  well  up  with  the  bark.  Though 
a  larger  boat  than  the  Bertha  Millner,  she  was  rolling  in 
lamentable  fashion,  and  every  laboring  heave  showed 
her  bottom  encrusted  with  barnacles  and  seaweed. 

Her  fore  and  main  tops'ls  and  to 'gallants 'Is  were  set, 


220          MORAN  OP  THE  LADY  LETTY 

as  also  were  her  lower  stays'ls  and  royals.  But  the 
braces  seemed  to  have  parted,  and  the  yards  were  swing 
ing  back  and  forth  in  their  ties.  The  spanker  was  brailed 
up,  and  the  spanker  boom  thrashed  idly  over  the  poop 
as  the  bark  rolled  and  rolled  and  rolled.  The  mainmast 
was  working  in  its  shoe,  the  rigging  and  backstays 
sagged.  An  air  of  abandonment,  of  unspeakable  loneli 
ness,  of  abomination  hung  about  her.  Never  had 
Wilbur  seen  anything  more  utterly  alone.  Within  three 
lengths  the  Captain  rose  in  his  place  and  shouted : 

"Bark  ahoy!"  There  was  no  answer.  Thrice  he 
repeated  the  call,  and  thrice  the  dismal  thrashing  of  the 
spanker  boom  and  the  flapping  of  the  sails  was  the  only 
answer.  Kitchell  turned  to  Wilbur  in  triumph.  "I 
guess  she's  ours,"  he  whispered.  They  were  now  close 
enough  to  make  out  the  bark's  name  upon  her  counter : 
Lady  Letty,  and  Wilbur  was  in  the  act  of  reading  it  aloud 
when  a  huge  brown  dorsal  fin,  like  the  triangular  sail  of 
a  lugger,  cut  the  water  between  the  dory  and  the 
bark. 

"Shark!"  said  Kitchell;  "and  there's  another;"  he 
exclaimed  in  the  next  instant,  "and  another!  Strike 
me,  the  water's  alive  with  'em !  There's  a  stiff  on  the 
bark,  you  can  lay  to  that;"  and  at  that,  acting  on  some 
strange  impulse,  he  called  again,  "Bark  ahoy!"  There 
was  no  response. 

The  dory  was  now  well  up  to  the  derelict  and  pretty 
soon  a  prolonged  and  vibratory  hissing  noise,  strident, 
insistent,  smote  upon  their  ears. 

"What's  that?"  exclaimed  Wilbur,  perplexed.  The 
Captain  shook  his  head,  and  just  then,  as  the  bark  rolled 
almost  to  her  scuppers  in  their  direction,  a  glimpse  of 
the  deck  was  presented  to  their  view.  It  was  only  a 
glimpse,  gone  on  the  instant,  as  the  bark  rolled  back  to 
port,  but  it  was  time  enough  for  Wilbur  and  the  Captain 


THE   LADY   LETTY  221 

to  note  the  parted  and  open  seams  and  the  deck  bulging 
and  in  one  corner  blown  up  and  splintered. 

The  Captain  smote  a  thigh. 

"Coal!"  he  cried.  ''Anthracite  coal.  The  coal  he't 
up  and  generated  gas,  of  course — no  fire,  y'  understand, 
just  gas — gas  blew  up  the  deck — no  way  of  stopping 
combustion.  Naturally  they  had  to  cut  for  it.  Smell 
the  gas,  can't  you?  No  wonder  she's  hissing — no 
wonder  she  rolled — cargo  goes  off  in  gas — and  what's  to 
weigh  her  down  ?  I  was  wondering  what  could 'a  wrecked 
her  in  this  weather.  Lord,  it's  as  plain  as  Billy-b'damn." 

The  dory  was  alongside.  Kitchell  watched  his  chance, 
and  as  the  bark  rolled  down  caught  the  mainyard-brace 
hanging  in  a  bight  over  the  rail  and  swung  himself  to  the 
deck.  "Look  sharp!"  he  called  as  Wilbur  followed. 
"It  won't  do  for  you  to  fall  among  them  shark,  son. 
Just  look  at  the  hundreds  of  'em.  There's  a  stiff  on 
board,  sure." 

Wilbur  steadied  himself  on  the  swaying  broken  deck, 
choking  against  the  reek  of  coal-gas  that  hissed  upward 
on  every  hand.  The  heat  was  almost  like  a  furnace. 
Everything  metal  was  intolerable  to  the  touch. 

"She's  abandoned,  sure,"  muttered  the  Captain. 
"Look,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  empty  chocks  on  the 
house  and  the  severed  lashings.  "Oh,  it's  a  haul,  son; 
it's  a  haul,  an'  you  can  lay  to  that.  Now,  then,  cabin 
first,"  and  he  started  aft. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  go  into  the  cabin.  The 
moment  the  door  was  opened  suffocating  billows  of  gas 
rushed  out  and  beat  them  back.  On  the  third  trial  the 
Captain  staggered  out,  almost  overcome  with  its  volume. 

"Can't  get  in  there  for  awhile  yet,"  he  gasped,  "but 
I  saw  the  stiff  on  the  floor  by  the  table;  looks  like  the 
old  man.  He's  spit  his  false  teeth  out.  I  knew  there 
was  a  stiff  aboard." 


222  MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

"Then  there's  more  than  one,"  said  Wilbur.  "See 
there!"  From  behind  the  wheel-box  in  the  stern 
protruded  a  hand  and  forearm  in  an  oilskin  sleeve. 

Wilbur  ran  up,  peered  over  the  little  space  between 
the  wheel  and  the  wheel-box,  and  looked  straight  into 
a  pair  of  eyes — eyes  that  were  alive.  Kitchell  came  up. 

"One  left,  anyhow,"  he  muttered,  looking  over 
Wilbur's  shoulder;  "sailor  man,  though;  can't  interfere 
with  our  salvage.  The  bark's  derelict,  right  enough. 
Shake  him  out  of  there,  son;  can't  you  see,  the  lad's 
dotty  with  the  gas?" 

Cramped  into  the  narrow  space  of  the  wheel-box 
like  a  terrified  hare  in  a  blind  burrow  was  the  figure 
of  a  young  boy.  So  firmly  was  he  wedged  into  the  corner 
that  Kitchell  had  to  kick  down  the  box  before  he  could 
be  reached.  The  boy  spoke  no  word.  Stupefied  with 
the  gas,  he  watched  them  with  vacant  eyes. 

Wilbur  put  a  hand  under  the  lad's  arm  and  got  him 
to  his  feet.  He  was  a  tall,  well-made  fellow,  with  ruddy 
complexion  and  milk-blue  eyes,  and  was  dressed,  as  if 
for  heavy  weather,  in  oilskins. 

"Well,  sonny,  you've  had  a  fine  mess  aboard  here," 
said  Kitchell.  The  boy — he  might  have  been  two  and 
twenty — stared  and  frowned. 

"Clean  loco  from  the  gas.  Get  him  into  the  dory, 
son.  I'll  try  this  bloody  cabin  again." 

Kitchell  turned  back  and  descended  from  the  poop, 
and  Wilbur,  his  arm  around  the  boy,  followed.  Kitchell 
was  already  out  of  hearing,  and  Wilbur  was  bracing 
himself  upon  the  rolling  deck,  steadying  the  young 
fellow  at  his  side,  when  the  latter  heaved  a  deep  breath. 
His  throat  and  breast  swelled.  Wilbur  stared  sharply, 
with  a  muttered  exclamation. 

"My  God,  it's  a  girl !"  he  said. 


IV 

MORAN 

MEANWHILE  Charlie  had  brought  the  Bertha  Millner 
up  to  within  hailing  distance  of  the  bark,  and  had  hove 
her  to.  Kitchell  ordered  Wilbur  to  return  to  the  schooner 
and  bring  over  a  couple  of  axes. 

"We'll  have  to  knock  holes  all  through  the  house, 
and  break  in  the  skylights,  and  let  the  gas  escape  before 
we  can  do  anything.  Take  the  kid  over  and  give  him 
whisky;  then  come  along  back  and  bear  a  hand." 

Wilbur  had  considerable  difficulty  in  getting  into  the 
dory  from  the  deck  of  the  plunging  derelict  with  his 
dazed  and  almost  helpless  charge.  Even  as  he  slid 
down  the  rope  into  the  little  boat  and  helped  the  girl  to 
follow,  he  was  aware  of  two  dull,  brownish-green  shad 
ows  moving  just  beneath  the  water's  surface  not  ten 
feet  away, and  knew  that  he  was  being  stealthily  watched. 
The  Chinamen  at  the  oars  of  the  dory,  with  that  extra 
ordinary  absence  of  curiosity  which  is  the  mark  of  the 
race,  did  not  glance  a  second  time  at  the  survivor  of  the 
Lady  Letty's  misadventure.  To  them  it  was  evident  she 
was  but  a  for'mast  hand.  However,  Wilbur  examined 
her  with  extraordinary  interest  as  she  sat  in  the  stern 
sheets,  sullen,  half-defiant,  half -bewildered,  and  bereft 
of  speech. 

She  was  not  pretty — she  was  too  tall  for  that — quite 
as  tall  as  Wilbur  himself,  and  her  skeleton  was  too 
massive.  Her  face  was  red,  and  the  glint  of  blue  ice 
was  in  her  eyes.  The  eyelashes  and  eyebrows,  as  well 

223 


224          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

as  the  almost  imperceptible  down  that  edged  her  cheek 
when  she  turned  against  the  light,  were  blond  almost 
to  whiteness.  What  beauty  she  had  was  of  the  fine, 
hardy  Norse  type.  Her  hands  were  red  and  hard,  and 
even  beneath  the  coarse  sleeve  of  the  oilskin  coat  one 
could  infer  that  the  biceps  and  deltoids  were  large  and 
powerful.  She  was  coarse-fiber ed,  no  doubt,  mentally 
as  well  as  physically,  but  her  coarseness,  so  Wilbur 
guessed,  would  prove  to  be  the  coarseness  of  a  primitive 
rather  than  of  a  degenerate  character. 

One  thing  he  saw  clearly  during  the  few  moments  of 
the  dory's  trip  between  bark  and  schooner — the  fact 
that  his  charge  was  a  woman  must  be  kept  from  Captain 
Kitchell.  Wilbur  knew  his  man  by  now.  It  could 
be  done.  Kitchell  and  he  would  take  the  Lady  Letty 
into  the  nearest  port  as  soon  as  possible.  The 
deception  would  have  to  be  maintained  only  for  a  day 
or  two. 

He  left  the  girl  on  board  the  schooner  and  returned  to 
the  derelict  with  the  axes.  He  found  Kitchell  on  the 
house,  just  returned  from  a  hasty  survey  of  the  prize. 

"She's  a  daisy,"  vociferated  the  Captain,  as  Wilbur 
came  aboard.  "I've  been  havin'  a  look  'round.  She's 
brand  new.  See  the  date  on  the  capst'n-head?  Chris- 
tiania  is  her  hailin'  port — built  there;  but  it's  her  papers 
I'm  after.  Then  we'll  know  where  we're  at.  How's 
the  kid?" 

"She's  all  right,"  answered  Wilbur,  before  he  could 
collect  his  thoughts.  But  the  Captain  thought  he  had 
reference  to  the  Bertha. 

"I  mean  the  kid  we  found  in  the  wheel-box.  He 
doesn't  count  in  our  salvage.  The  bark's  been  aban 
doned  as  plain  as  paint.  If  I  thought  he  stood  in  our 
way,"  and  Kitchell's  jaw  grew  salient,  "I'd  shut  him 
in  the  cabin  with  the  old  man  a  spell,  till  he'd  copped 


MORAN  225 

off.  Now  then,  son,  first  thing  to  do  is  to  chop  vents  in 
this  yere  house." 

"Hold  up — we  can  do  better  than  that,"  said  Wilbur, 
restraining  Kitchen's  fury  of  impatience.  "Slide  the 
big  skylight  off — it's  loose  already." 

A  couple  of  schooner's  hands  were  ordered  aboard  the 
Lady  Letty,  and  the  skylight  removed.  At  first  the 
pour  of  gas  was  terrific,  but  by  degrees  it  abated,  and  at 
the  end  of  half  an  hour  Kitchell  could  keep  back  no 
longer. 

"Come  on!"  he  cried,  catching  up  an  ax;  "rot  the 
difference."  All  the  plundering  instincts  of  the  man 
were  aroused  and  clamouring.  He  had  become  a  very 
wolf  within  scent  of  its  prey — a  veritable  hyena  nuzzling 
about  its  carrion. 

"Lord  !"  he  gasped,  "t'  think  that  everything  we  see, 
everything  we  find,  is  ours!" 

Wilbur  himself  was  not  far  behind  him  in  eagerness. 
Somewhere  deep  down  in  the  heart  of  every  Anglo-Saxon 
lies  the  predatory  instinct  of  his  Viking  ancestors — an 
instinct  that  a  thousand  years  of  respectability  and  tax- 
paying  have  not  quite  succeeded  in  eliminating. 

A  flight  of  six  steps,  brass-bound  and  bearing  the 
double  L  of  the  bark's  monogram,  led  them  down  into  a 
sort  of  vestibule.  From  the  vestibule  a  door  opened 
directly  into  the  main  cabin.  They  entered. 

The  cabin  was  some  twenty  feet  long  and  unusually 
spacious.  Fresh  from  his  recollection  of  the  grime  and 
reek  of  the  schooner,  it  struck  Wilbur  as  particularly 
dainty.  It  was  painted  white  with  stripes  of  blue,  gold, 
and  pea-green.  On  either  side  three  doors  opened  off 
into  staterooms  and  private  cabins,  and  with  each  roll  of 
the  derelict  these  doors  banged  like  an  irregular  discharge 
of  revolvers.  In  the  centre  was  the  dining-table, 
covered  with  a  red  cloth,  very  much  awry.  On  each 


226          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

side  of  the  table  were  four  armchairs,  screwed  to  the 
deck,  one  somewhat  larger  at  the  head.  Overhead,  in 
swinging  racks,  were  glasses  and  decanters  of  whisky 
and  some  kind  of  white  wine.  But  for  one  feature  the 
sight  of  the  Letty's  cabin  was  charming.  On  the  floor 
by  the  sliding  door  in  the  forward  bulkhead  lay  a  body, 
face  upward. 

The  body  was  that  of  a  middle-aged,  fine-looking  man, 
his  head  covered  with  the  fur,  ear-lapped  cap  that 
Norwegians  affect,  even  in  the  tropics.  The  eyes  were 
wide  open,  the  face  discoloured.  In  the  last  gasp  of 
suffocation  the  set  of  false  teeth  had  been  forced  half-way 
out  of  his  mouth,  distorting  the  countenance  with  a 
hideous,  simian  grin.  Instantly  Kitchell's  eye  was  caught 
by  the  glint  of  the  gold  in  which  these  teeth  were  set. 

"Here's  about  a  hundred  dollars  to  begin  with,"  he 
exclaimed,  and  picking  up  the  teeth,  dropped  them  into 
his  pocket  with  a  wink  at  Wilbur.  The  body  of  the  dead 
Captain  was  passed  up  through  the  skylight  and  laid 
out  on  the  deck,  and  Wilbur  and  Kitchell  turned  their 
attention  to  what  had  been  his  stateroom. 

The  Captain's  room  was  the  largest  one  of  the  six 
staterooms  opening  from  the  main  cabin. 

"  Here  we  are  !"  exclaimed  Kitchell,  as  he  and  Wilbur 
entered.  "The  old  man's  room,  and  no  mistake." 

Besides  the  bunk,  the  stateroom  was  fitted  up  with  a 
lounge  of  red  plush  screwed  to  the  bulkhead.  A  roll  of 
charts  leaned  in  one  corner;  an  alarm-clock,  stopped  at 
1:15,  stood  on  a  shelf  in  the  company  of  some  dozen 
paper-covered  novels  and  a  drinking-glass  full  of  cigars. 
Over  the  lounge,  however,  was  the  rack  of  instruments, 
sextant,  barometer,  chronometer,  glass,  and  the  like, 
securely  screwed  down,  while  against  the  wall,  in  front 
of  a  swivel  leather  chair  that  was  ironed  to  the  deck,  was 
the  locked  secretary. 


MORAN  227 

"Look  at  'em;  just  look  at  'em,  will  you!"  said 
Kitchell,  running  his  fingers  lovingly  over  the  polished 
brass  of  the  instruments.  "There's  a  thousand  dollars 
of  stuff  right  here.  The  chronometer's  worth  five 
hundred  alone,  Bennett  &  Sons'  own  make. "  He  turned 
to  the  secretary.  "Now!"  he  exclaimed  with  a  long 
breath. 

What  followed  thrilled  Wilbur  with  alternate  excite 
ment,  curiosity,  and  a  vivid  sense  of  desecration  and 
sacrilege.  For  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  make  the 
thing  seem  right  or  legal  in  his  eyes,  and  yet  he  had 
neither  the  wish  nor  the  power  to  stay  his  hand  or  inter 
fere  with  what  Kitchell  was  doing. 

The  Captain  put  the  blade  of  the  ax  in  the  chink  of 
the  secretary's  door  and  wrenched  it  free.  It  opened 
down  to  form  a  sort  of  desk,  and  disclosed  an  array  of 
cubby-holes  and  two  small  doors,  both  locked.  These 
latter  Kitchell  smashed  in  with  the  ax-head.  Then  he 
seated  himself  in  the  swivel- chair  and  began  to  rifle  their 
contents  systematically,  Wilbur  leaning  over  his  shoulder. 
The  heat  from  the  coal  below  them  was  almost  unbear 
able.  In  the  cabin  the  six  doors  kept  up  a  continuous 
ear-shocking  fusillade,  as  though  half  a  dozen  men  were 
fighting  with  revolvers;  from  without,  down  the  open 
skylight,  came  the  singsong  talk  of  the  Chinamen  and 
the  wash  and  ripple  of  the  two  vessels,  now  side  by  side. 
The  air,  foul  beyond  expression,  tasted  of  brass;  their 
heads  swam  and  ached  to  bursting,  but  absorbed  in  their 
work  they  had  no  thought  of  the  lapse  of  time  nor  the 
discomfort  of  their  surroundings.  Twice  during  the 
examination  of  the  bark's  papers  Kitchell  sent  Wilbur 
out  into  the  cabin  for  the  whisky  decanter  in  the 
swinging  racks. 

"Here's  the  charter  papers,"  said  Kitchell,  unfolding 
and  spreading  them  out  one  by  one;  and  here's  the 


228          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

clearing  papers  from  Blyth  in  England.  This  yere's 
the  insoorance,  and  here,  this  is — rot  that,  nothin'  but 
the  articles  for  the  crew — no  use  to  us.  " 

In  a  separate  envelope,  carefully  sealed  and  bound, 
they  came  upon  the  Captain's  private  papers.  A 
marriage  certificate  setting  forth  the  union  between 
Eilert  Stern ersen,  of  Fruholmen,  Norway,  and  Sarah 
Moran,  of  some  seaport  town  (the  name  was  undecipher 
able)  of  the  North  of  England.  Next  came  a  birth  cer 
tificate  of  a  daughter  named  Moran,  dated  twenty-two 
years  back,  and  a  bill-of-sale  of  the  bark  Lady  Letty, 
whereby  a  two-thirds  interest  was  conveyed  from  the 
previous  owners  (a  ship-building  firm  of  Christiania)  to 
Captain  Eilert  Sternersen. 

"The  old  man  was  his  own  boss, "  commented  Kitchell. 
"Hallo!"  he  remarked,  "look  here;"  a  yellowed  photo 
graph  was  in  his  hand,  the  picture  of  a  stout,  fair-haired 
woman  of  about  forty,  wearing  enormous  pendant  ear 
rings  in  the  style  of  the  early  sixties.  Below  was  written: 
"S.  Moran  Sternersen,  ob.  1867." 

"  Old  woman  copped  off, "  said  Kitchell.  "  So  much  the 
better  for  us;  no  heirs  to  put  in  their  grab;  an' — hold 
hard — steady  all — here's  the  will,  s'help  me." 

The  only  items  of  importance  in  the  will  were  the 
confirmation  of  the  wife's  death  and  the  expressly 
stated  bequest  of  "the  bark  known  as,  and  sailing  under, 
the  name  of  the  Lady  Letty  to  my  only  and  beloved 
daughter,  Moran." 

"Well,"  said  Wilbur. 

The  Captain  sucked  his  mustache,  then  furiously, 
striking  the  desk  with  his  fist: 

"The  bark's  ours  !"  there  was  a  certain  ring  of  defiance 
in  his  voice.  "Damn  the  will !  I  ain't  so  cock  sure 
about  the  law,  but  I'll  make  sure." 

"As  how?"  said  Wilbur. 


MORAN  229 

Kitchell  slung  the  will  out  of  the  open  port  into  the 
sea. 

"That's  how,"  he  remarked.  "I'm  the  heir.  I  found 
the  bark;  mine  she  is,  an'  mine  she  stays — yours  an' 
mine,  that  is." 

But  Wilbur  had  not  even  the  time  to  thoroughly 
enjoy  the  satisfaction  that  the  Captain's  words  con 
veyed  before  an  idea  suddenly  presented  itself  to 
him.  The  girl  he  had  found  on  board  of  the  bark,  the 
ruddy,  fair-haired  girl  of  the  fine  and  hardy  Norse  type 
—that  was  the  daughter,  of  course;  that  was  "Moran." 
Instantly  the  situation  adjusted  itself  in  his  imagination. 
The  two  inseparables,  father  and  daughter,  sailors 
both,  their  lives  passed  together  on  shipboard,  and 
the  Lady  Letty  their  dream,  their  ambition,  a  vessel 
that  at  last  they  could  call  their  own. 

Then  this  disastrous  voyage — perhaps  the  first  in 
their  new  craft — the  combustion  in  the  coal — the  panic 
terror  of  the  crew  and  their  desertion  of  the  bark,  and 
the  sturdy  resolution  of  the  father  and  daughter  to 
bring  the  Letty  in — to  work  her  into  port  alone.  They 
had  failed;  the  father  had  died  from  gas;  the  girl,  at 
least  for  the  moment,  was  crazed  from  its  effects.  But 
the  bark  had  not  been  abandoned.  The  owner  was  on 
board.  Kitchell  was  wrong;  she  was  no  derelict;  not 
one  penny  could  they  gain  by  her  salvage. 

For  an  instant  a  wave  of  bitterest  disappointment 
passed  over  Wilbur  as  he  saw  his  $30,000  dwindling  to 
nothing.  Then  the  instincts  of  habit  reasserted  them 
selves.  The  taxpayer  in  him  was  stronger  than  the 
freebooter,  after  all.  He  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to  see 
to  it  that  the  girl  had  her  rights.  Kitchell  must  be 
made  aware  of  the  situation — must  be  told  that  Moran, 
the  daughter,  the  Captain's  heir,  was  on  board  the 
schooner;  that  the  "kid"  found  in  the  wheel-box  was  a 


230          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

girl.  But  on  second  thoughts  that  would  never  do. 
Above  all  things,  the  brute  Kitchell  must  not  be  shown 
that  a  girl  was  aboard  the  schooner  on  which  he  had 
absolute  command,  nor,  setting  the  question  of  Moran's 
sex  aside,  must  Kitchell  know  her  even  as  the  dead  cap 
tain's  heir.  There  was  a  difference  in  the  men  here,  and 
Wilbur  appreciated  it.  Kitchell,  the  law-abiding  tax 
payer,  was  a  weakling  in  comparison  with  Kitchell, 
the  freebooter  and  beachcomber  in  sight  of  his  prize. 

"Son,"  said  the  Captain,  making  a  bundle  of  all  the 
papers,  "take  these  over  to  my  bunk  and  hide  'em  under 
the  donkey's  breakfast.  Stop  a  bit,"  he  added,  as 
Wilbur  started  away.  "I'll  go  with  you.  We'll  have 
to  bury  the  old  man." 

Throughout  all  the  afternoon  the  Captain  had  been 
drinking  the  whisky  from  the  decanter  found  in  the 
cabin;  now  he  stood  up  unsteadily,  and  raising  his  glass, 
exclaimed : 

"Sonny,  here's  to  Kitchell,  Wilbur  &  Company, 
beachcombers,  un-limited.  What  do  you  say,  hey?" 

"I  only  want  to  be  sure  that  we've  a  right  to  the 
bark,"  answered  Wilbur. 

"Right  to  her — ri-hight  to  'er,"  hiccoughed  the 
Captain.  "Strike  me  blind,  I'd  like  to  see  any  one 
try'n  take  her  away  from  Alvinza  Kitchell  now," 
and  he  thrust  out  his  chin  at  Wilbur. 

"Well,  so  much  the  better,  then,"  said  Wilbur,  pock 
eting  the  papers.  The  pair  ascended  to  the  deck. 

The  burial  of  Captain  Sternersen  was  a  dreadful 
business.  Kitchell,  far  gone  in  whisky,  stood  on  the 
house  issuing  his  orders,  drinking  from  one  of  the  decan 
ters  he  had  brought  up  with  him.  He  had  already 
rifled  the  deal  man's  pockets,  and  had  even  taken  away 
the  boots  and  fur-lined  cap.  Cloths  were  cut  from  the 
spanker  and  rolled  around  the  body.  Then  Kitchell 


MORAN  231 

ordered  the  peak  halyards  unrove  and  used  as  lashings 
to  tie  the  canvas  around  the  corpse.  The  red  and  white 
flags  (the  distress  signals)  were  still  bound  on  the 
halyards. 

"Leave  'em  on.  Leave  'em  on,"  commanded  Kitchell. 
"Use  'm  as  a  shrou'.  All  ready,  now;  stan'  by  to  let  her 

go-" 

Wilbur  looked  over  at  the  schooner  and  noted  with 
immense  relief  that  Moran  was  not  in  sight.  Suddenly 
an  abrupt  reaction  took  place  in  the  Captain's  addled 
brain. 

"Can't  bury  um  'ithout  'is  teeth,"  he  gabbled 
solemnly.  He  laid  back  the  canvas  and  replaced  the 
set.  "Ole  man'd  ha'nt  me  'f  I  kep'  's  teeth.  Strike ! 
look  a'  that,  I  put  'em  in  upside  down.  Nev'  min', 
upsi'  down,  downsi'  up,  whaz  odds;  all  same  with  ole 
Bill,  hey,  ole  Bill,  all  same  with  you,  hey?"  Suddenly 
he  began  to  howl  with  laughter.  "T'  think  a  bein' 
buried  with  y'r  teeth  upsi'  down.  Oh,  me,  but  that's 
a  good  grind.  Stan'  by  to  heave  ole  Uncle  Bill  over — 
ready,  heave,  an'  away  she  goes."  He  ran  to  the  side, 
waving  his  hat  and  looking  over.  "Goo'-by,  ole  Bill, 
by-by.  There  you  go,  an'  the  signal  o'  distress  roun' 
you.  H.  B. — 'I'm  in  need  of  assistance.'  Lord,  here 
comes  the  sharks — look !  look  !  look  at  um  fight !  look  at 
um  takin'  ole  Bill !  '  I'm  in  need  of  assistance.'  I  sh'd 
say  you  were,  ole  Bill." 

Wilbur  looked  once  over  the  side  in  the  churning, 
lashing  water,  then  drew  back,  sick  to  vomiting.  But 
in  less  than  thirty  seconds  the  water  was  quiet.  Not  a 
shark  was  in  sight. 

"Get  over  to  the  Bertha  with  those  papers,  son," 
ordered  Kitchell;  "I'll  bide  here  and  dig  up  sh'  mor'  loot. 
I'll  gut  this  ole  pill-box  from  stern  to  stem-post  'fore 
I'll  leave.  I  won't  leave  a  copper  rivet  in  'er,  notta 


232          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

co'er  rivet,  d'y'hear?"  he  shouted,  his  face  purple  with 
unnecessary  rage. 

Wilbur  returned  to  the  schooner  with  the  two  China 
men,  leaving  Kitchell  alone  on  the  bark.  He  found  the 
girl  sitting  by  the  rudder-head  almost  as  he  had  left  her,, 
looking  about  her  with  vague,  unseeing  eyes. 

"Your  name  is  Moran,  isn't  it?"  he  asked.  "Moran 
Sternersen." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  then  looked  curiously 
at  a  bit  of  tarred  rope  on  the  deck.  Nothing  more 
could  be  got  out  of  her.  Wilbur  talked  to  her  at  length, 
and  tried  to  make  her  understand  the  situation,  but  it 
was  evident  she  did  not  follow.  However,  at  each 
mention  of  her  name  she  would  answer : 

"Yes,  yes,  I'm  Moran." 

Wilbur  turned  .away  from  her,  biting  his  nether  lip  in 
perplexity. 

"  Now  what  am  I  going  to  do  ? "  he  muttered.  "What 
a  situation  !  If  I  tell  the  Captain,  it's  all  up  with  the 
girl.  If  he  didn't'kill  her,  he'd  do  worse — might  do  both. 
If  I  don't  tell  him,  there  goes  her  birthright,  $60,000,  and 
she  alone  in  the  world.  It's  begun  to  go  already,"  he 
added,  listening  to  the  sounds  that  came  from  the  bark. 
Kitchell  was  raging  to  and  fro  in  the  cabin  in  a  frenzy  of 
drink,  ax  in  hand,  smashing  glassware,  hacking  into 
the  woodwork,  singing  the  while  at  the  top  of  his  voice: 

"  As  through  the  drop  I  go,  drop  I  go, 
As  through  the  drop  I  go,  drop  I  go, 
As  through  the  drop  I  go, 
Down  to  hell  that  yawns  below, 
Twenty  stiffs  all  in  a  row, 
Damn  your  eyes." 

"That's  the  kind  of  man  I  have  to  deal  with,"  mut 
tered  Wilbur.  "It's  encouraging,  and  there's  no  one  to 
talk  to.  Not  much  help  in  a  Chinaman  and  a  crazy  girl 


MORAN  233 

in  a  man's  oilskins.  It's  about  the  biggest  situation  you 
ever  faced,  Ross  Wilbur,  and  you're  all  alone.  What 
the  devil  are  you  going  to  do?" 

He  acknowledged  with  considerable  humiliation  that 
he  could  not  get  the  better  of  Kitchell,  either  physically 
or  mentally.  Kitchell  was  a  more  powerful  man  than 
he,  and  cleverer.  The  Captain  was  in  his  element  now, 
and  he  was  the  commander.  On  shore  it  would  have 
been  vastly  different.  The  city-bred  fellow,  with  a 
policeman  always  in  call,  would  have  known  how  to 
act. 

"I  simply  can't  stand  by  and  see  that  hog  plundering 
everything  she's  got.  What's  to  be  done?" 

And  suddenly,  while  the  words  were  yet  in  his  mouth, 
the  sun  was  wiped  from  the  sky  like  writing  from  a  slate, 
the  horizon  blackened,  vanished,  a  long  white  line  of 
froth  whipped  across  the  sea  and  came  on  hissing.  A 
hollow  note  boomed  out,  boomed,  swelled,  and  grew 
rapidly  to  a  roar. 

An  icy  chill  stabbed  the  air.  Then  the  squall  swooped 
and  struck,  and  the  sky  shut  down  over  the  troubled 
ocean  like  a  pot-lid  over  a  boiling  pot.  The  schooner's 
fore  and  main  sheets,  that  had  not  been  made  fast, 
unrove  at  the  first  gust  and  began  to  slat  wildly  in  the 
wind.  The  Chinamen  cowered  to  the  decks,  grasping 
at  cleats,  stays,  and  masts.  They  were  helpless — 
paralyzed  with  fear.  Charlie  clung  to  a  stay,  one  arm 
over  his  head,  as  though  dodging  a  blow.  Wilbur 
gripped  the  rail  with  his  hands  where  he  stood,  his  teeth 
set,  his  eyes  wide,  waiting  for  the  foundering  of  the 
schooner,  his  only  thought  being  that  the  end  could  not 
be  far.  He  had  heard  of  the  suddenness  of  tropical 
squalls,  but  this  had  come  with  the  abruptness  of  a 
scene-shift  at  a  play.  The  schooner  veered  broad-on  to 
the  waves.  It  was  the  beginning  of  the  end — another 


234          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

roll  to  the  leeward  like  the  last  and  the  Pacific  would 
come  aboard. 

' '  And  you  call  yourselves  sailor-men  !  Are  you  going 
to  drown  like  rats  on  a  plank?"  A  voice  that  Wilbur 
did  not  know  went  ringing  through  that  horrid  shouting 
of  wind  and  sea  like  the  call  of  a  bugle.  He  turned  to  see 
Moran,  the  girl  of  the  Lady  Letiy,  standing  erect  upon  the 
quarterdeck,  holding  down  the  schooner's  wheel.  The 
confusion  of  that  dreadful  moment,  that  had  paralyzed 
the  crew's  senses,  had  brought  back  hers.  She  was 
herself  again,  savage,  splendid,  dominant,  superb  in  her 
wrath  at  their  weakness,  their  cowardice. 

Her  heavy  brows  were  knotted  over  her  naming  eyes, 
her  hat  was  gone,  and  her  thick  bands  of  yellow  hair 
whipped  across  her  face  and  streamed  out  in  the  wind 
like  streamers  of  the  northern  lights.  As  she  shouted, 
gesturing  furiously  to  the  men,  the  loose  skin  of  the  oil 
skin  coat  fell  back  and  showed  her  forearm,  strong, 
round,  and  white  as  scud,  the  hand  and  wrist  so  tanned 
as  to  look  almost  like  a  glove.  And  all  the  while  she 
shouted  aloud,  furious  with  indignation,  raging  against 
the  supineness  of  the  Bertha's  crew. 

"Stand  by,  men!  stand  by!  Look  alive,  now! 
Make  fast  the  stays'l  halyardsto  the  dory's  wary  !  Now, 
then,  unreeve  y'r  halyards  !  all  clear  there !  pass  the  end 
for'ard  outside  the  rigging  !  outside  !  you  fools  !  Make 
fast  to  the  bits  for'ard — let  go  y'r  line — that'll  do.  Soh 
— soh.  There,  she's  coming  up." 

The  dory  had  been  towing  astern,  and  the  seas  comb 
ing  over  her  had  swamped  her.  Moran  had  been  in 
spired  to  use  the  swamped  boat  as  a  sea-anchor,  fasten 
ing  her  to  the  schooner's  bow  instead  of  to  the  stern. 
The  Bertha's  bow,  answering  to  the  drag,  veered  around. 
The  Bertha  stood  head  to  the  seas,  riding  out  the  squall. 
It  was  a  masterpiece  of  seamanship,  conceived  and 


MORAN  235 

executed  in  the  very  thick  of  peril,  and  it  saved  the 
schooner. 

But  there  was  little  time  to  think  of  themselves.  On 
board  the  bark  the  sails  were  still  set.  The  squall  struck 
the  Lady  Letty  squarely  aback.  She  heeled  over  upon 
the  instant ;  then  as  the  top  hamper  carried  away  with  a 
crash,  eased  back  a  moment  upon  an  even  keel.  But 
her  cargo  had  shifted.  The  bark  was  doomed.  Through 
the  flying  spray  and  scud  and  rain  Wilbur  had  a  momen 
tary  glimpse  of  Kitchell,  hacking  at  the  lanyards  with 
his  ax.  Then  the  Lady  Letty  capsized,  going  over  till 
her  masts  were  flat  with  the  water,  and  in  another 
second  rolled  bottom  up.  For  a  moment  her  keel  and 
red  iron  bottom  were  visible  through  the  mist  of  driving 
spoon-drift.  Suddenly  they  sank  from  sight.  She  was 
gone. 

And  then,  like  the  rolling  up  of  a  scroll,  the  squall 
passed,  the  sun  returned,  the  sky  burned  back  to  blue, 
the  ruggedness  was  smoothed  from  the  ocean,  and  the 
warmth  of  the  tropics  closed  around  the  Bertha  Millner, 
once  more  rolling  easily  on  the  swell  of  the  ocean. 

Of  the  Lady  Letty  and  the  drunken,  beachcombing 
captain  not  a  trace  remained.  Kitchell  had  gone  down 
with  his  prize.  The  Bertha  Millner's  Chinese  crew, 
huddled  forward,  were  talking  wildly,  pointing  and 
looking  in  a  bewildered  fashion  over  the  sides. 

Wilbur  and  Moran  were  left  alone  on  the  open  Pacific. 


V 

A  GIRL  CAPTAIN- 
WHEN  Wilbur  came  on  deck  the  morning  after  the 
sinking  of  the  bark  he  was  surprised  to  find  the  schooner 
under  way  again.  Wilbur  and  Charlie  had  berthed 
forward  during  that  night — Charlie  with  the  hands, 
Wilbur  in  the  Captain's  hammock.  The  reason  for  this 
change  of  quarters  had  been  found  in  a  peremptory 
order  from  Moran  during  the  dog-watch  the  preceding 
evening. 

She  had  looked  squarely  at  Wilbur  from  under  her 
scowl,  and  had  said  briefly  and  in  a  fine  contralto  voice, 
that  he  had  for  the  first  time  noted :  "I  berth  aft,  in  the 
cabin;  you  and  the  Chinaman  forward.  Understand?" 
Moran  had  only  forestalled  Wilbur's  intention;  while 
after  her  almost  miraculous  piece  of  seamanship  in  the 
rescue  of  the  schooner,  Charlie  and  the  Chinese  crew 
accorded  her  a  respect  that  was  almost  superstitious. 

Wilbur  met  her  again  at  breakfast.  She  was  still 
wearing  men's  clothing — part  of  Kitchell's  outfit — 
and  was  booted  to  the  knee;  but  now  she  wore  no  hat, 
and  her  enormous  mane  of  rye-coloured  hair  was  braided 
into  long  strands  near  to  the  thickness  of  a  man's  arm. 
The  redness  of  her  face  gave  a  startling  effect  to  her 
pale-blue  eyes  and  sandy,  heavy  eyebrows,  that  easily 
lowered  to  a  frown.  She  ate  with  her  knife,  and  after 
pushing  away  her  plate  Wilbur  observed  that  she  drank 
half  a  tumbler  of  whisky  and  water. 

The  conversation  between  the  two  was  tame  enough. 
236 


A   GIRL  CAPTAIN  237 

There  was  no  common  ground  upon  which  they  could 
meet.  To  her  father's  death — no  doubt  an  old  matter 
even  before  her  rescue — she  made  no  allusion.  Her 
attitude  toward  Wilbur  was  one  of  defiance  and 
suspicion.  Only  once  did  she  relax: 

"How  did  you  come  to  be  aboard  her  with  these 
rat-eaters — you're  no  sailor?"  she  said  abruptly. 

"Huh!"  laughed  Wilbur,  mirthlessly;  "huh!  I  was 
shanghaied." 

Moran  smote  the  table  with  a  red  fist,  and  shouted 
with  sonorous,  bell-toned  laughter. 

"Shanghaied? — you?  Now,  that  is  really  good. 
And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Signal  the  first  home-bound  vessel  and  be  taken 
into  'Frisco.  I've  my  insurance  to  collect  (Wilbur  had 
given  her  the  Letty's  papers)  and  the  disaster  to  report." 

"Well,  I'm  not  keen  on  shark-hunting  myself,"  said 
Wilbur.  But  Moran  showed  no  interest  in  his  plans. 

However,  they  soon  found  that  they  were  not  to  be 
permitted  to  signal.  At  noon  the  same  day  the  schooner 
sighted  a  steamship's  smoke  on  the  horizon  and  began 
to  raise  her  rapidly.  Moran  immediately  bound  on 
the  ensign,  union  down,  and  broke  it  out  at  the  peak. 

Charlie,  who  was  at  the  wheel,  spoke  a  sentence  in 
Chinese,  and  one  of  the  hands  drew  his  knife  across  the 
halyards  and  brought  the  distress  signal  to  the  deck. 
Moran  turned  upon  Charlie  with  an  oath,  her  brows 
knotted. 

"No  !  No  !"  sang  Charlie,  closing  his  eyes  and  wagging 
his  head.  "No!  Too  muchee  los'  time;  no  can  stop. 
You  come  down-side  cabin;  you  an'  one-piecee  boss 
number  two"  (this  was  Wilbur)  "have  um  chin-chin." 

The  odd  conclave  assembled  about  Kitchen's  table — 
the  clubman,  the  half-masculine  girl  in  men's  clothes, 


238          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

and  the  Chinaman.  The  conference  was  an  angry  one, 
Wilbur  and  Moran  insisting  that  they  be  put  aboard 
the  steamship,  Charlie  refusing  with  calm  obstinacy. 

"I  have  um  chin-chin  with  China  boys  las'  nigh'. 
China  boy  heap  flaid,  no  can  stop  um  steamship.  Heap 
flaid  too  much  talkee-talkee.  No  stop;  go  fish  now;  go 
fish  chop-chop.  Los'  heap  time;  go  fish.  I  no  savvy 
sail  um  boat,  China  boy  no  savvy  sail  um  boat.  I  tink 
um  you  savvy"  (and  he  pointed  to  Moran).  "I  tink  um 
you  savvy  plenty  heap  much  disa  bay.  Boss  number 
two,  no  savvy  sailum  boat,  but  him  savvy  plenty 
many  all  same." 

"And  we're  to  stop  on  board  your  dough-dish  and 
navigate  her  for  you?"  shouted  Moran,  her  face  blazing. 

Charlie  nodded  blandly:  "I  tink  um  yass." 

"And  when  we  get  back  to  port,"  exclaimed  Wilbur, 
"you  think,  perhaps,  I — we  won't  make  it  interesting 
for  you?" 

Charlie  smiled. 

"I  tink  um  Six  Company  heap  rich." 

"Well,  get  along,"  ordered  Moran,  as  though  the 
schooner  was  her  property,  "and  we'll  talk  it  over." 

"China  boy  lika  you  heap  pretty  big,"  said  Charlie 
to  Moran,  as  he  went  out.  "You  savvy  sail  um  boat  all 
light;  wanta  you  fo'  captain.  But,"  he  added,  sud 
denly  dropping  his  bland  passivity  as  though  it  were  a 
mask,  and  for  an  instant  allowing  the  wicked  malevo 
lent  Cantonese  to  come  to  the  surface,  "China  boy 
no  likee  funnee  business,  savvy?"  Then  with  the  smile 
of  a  Talleyrand  he  disappeared. 

Moran  and  Wilbur  were  helpless  for  the  present. 
They  were  but  two  against  seven  Chinamen.  They  must 
stay  on  board,  if  the  coolies  wished  it;  and  if  they  were 
to  stay  it  was  a  matter  of  their  own  personal  safety 
that  the  Bertha  Millner  should  be  properly  navigated. 


A   GIRL  CAPTAIN  239 

"I'll  captain  her,"  concluded  Moran,  sullenly,  at  the 
end  of  their  talk.  "You  must  act  as  mate,  Mr.  Wilbur. 
And  don't  get  any  mistaken  idea  into  your  head  that, 
because  I'm  a  young  girl  and  alone,  you  are  going  to 
run  things  your  way.  I  don't  like  funny  business  any 
better  than  Charlie." 

"Look  here,"  said  Wilbur,  complaining,  "don't  think 
I'm  altogether  a  villain.  I  think  you're  a  ripping  fine 
girl.  You're  different  from  any  kind  of  girl  I  ever  met, 
of  course,  but  you,  by  jingo,  you're — you're  splendid. 
There  in  the  squall  last  evening,  when  you  stood  at  the 
wheel,  with  your  hair " 

"Oh,  drop  that !"  said  the  girl,  contemptuously,  and 
went  up  on  deck.  Wilbur  followed,  scratching  an  ear. 

Charlie  was  called  aft  and  their  decision  announced. 
Moran  would  navigate  the  Bertha  Millner,  Wilbur  and 
she  taking  the  watches.  Charlie  promised  that  he 
would  answer  for  the  obedience  of  the  men. 

Their  first  concern  was  now  to  shape  their  course  for 
Magdalena  Bay.  Moran  and  Wilbur  looked  over 
Kitchell's  charts  and  log-book,  but  the  girl  flung  them 
aside  disdainfully. 

"He's  been  sailing  by  the  dead  reckoning,  and  his 
navigation  is  drivel.  Why,  a  cabin-boy  would  know 
better;  and,  to  end  with,  the  chronometer  is  run  down. 
I'll  have  to  get  Green 'ich  time  by  taking  the  altitude  of 
a  star  to-night,  and  figure  out  longitude.  Did  you 
bring  off  our  sextant?" 

Wilbur  shook  his  head.     "Only  the  papers,"  he  said. 

"There's  only  an  old  ebony  quadrant  here,"  said 
Moran,  "but  it  will  have  to  do." 

That  night,  lying  flat  on  her  back  on  the  deck  with  the 
quadrant  to  her  eye,  she  "got  a  star  and  brought  it 
down  to  the  horizon,"  and  sat  up  under  the  reeking 
lamp  in  the  cabin  nearly  the  whole  night  ciphering  and 


240          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

ciphering  till  she  had  filled  up  the  four  sides  of  the 
log-slate  with  her  calculations.  However,  by  daylight 
she  had  obtained  the  correct  Greenwich  time  and  worked 
the  schooner's  longitude. 

Two  days  passed,  then  a  third.  Moran  set  the 
schooner's  course.  She  kept  almost  entirely  to  herself, 
and  when  not  at  the  wheel  or  taking  the  sun  or  writing 
up  the  log,  gloomed  over  the  after-rail  into  the  schooner's 
wake.  Wilbur  knew  not  what  to  think  of  her.  Never 
in  his  life  had  he  met  with  any  girl  like  this.  So  accus 
tomed  had  she  been  to  the  rough,  give-and-take,  direct 
associations  of  a  seafaring  life  that  she  misinterpreted 
well-meant  politeness — the  only  respect  he  knew  how  to 
pay  her — to  mean  insidious  advances.  She  was  sus 
picious  of  him — distrusted  him  utterly,  and  openly 
ridiculed  his  abortive  seamanship.  Pretty  she  was  not, 
but  she  soon  began  to  have  a  certain  amount  of  attraction 
for  Wilbur.  He  liked  her  splendid  ropes  of  hair,  her 
heavy  contralto  voice,  her  fine  animal  strength  of  bone 
and  muscle  (admittedly  greater  than  his  own);  he 
admired  her  indomitable  courage  and  self-reliance, 
while  her  positive  genius  in  the  matters  of  seamanship 
and  navigation  filled  him  with  speechless  wonder.  The 
girls  he  had  been  used  to  were  clever  in  their  knowledge 
of  the  amenities  of  an  afternoon  call  or  the  formalities  of 
a  paper  german.  A  girl  of  two-and-twenty  who  could 
calculate  longitude  from  the  altitude  of  a  star  was  out 
side  his  experience.  The  more  he  saw  of  her  the  more 
he  knew  himself  to  have  been  right  in  his  first  estimate. 
She  drank  whisky  after  her  meals,  and  when  angry, 
which  was  often,  swore  like  a  buccaneer.  As  yet  she 
was  almost,  as  one  might  say,  without  sex — savage, 
unconquered,  untamed,  glorying  in  her  own  indepen 
dence,  her  sullen  isolation.  Her  neck  was  thick,  strong, 
and  very  white,  her  hands  roughened  and  calloused.  In 


A   GIRL   CAPTAIN  241 

her  man's  clothes  she  looked  tall,  vigourous  and  unre 
strained,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion,  as  Wilbur 
passed  close  to  her,  he  was  made  aware  that  her  hair,  her 
neck,  her  entire  personality  exhaled  a  fine,  sweet, 
natural  redolence  that  savoured  of  the  ocean  and  great 
winds. 

One  day,  as  he  saw  her  handling  a  huge  water-barrel 
by  the  chines  only,  with  a  strength  he  knew  to  be  greater 
than  his  own,  her  brows  contracted  with  the  effort,  her 
hair  curling  about  her  thick  neck,  her  large,  round  arms 
bare  to  the  elbows,  a  sudden  thrill  of  enthusiasm  smote 
through  him,  and  between  his  teeth  he  exclaimed  to 
himself : 

"By  Jove,  you're  a  woman  ! " 

The  Bertha  Millner  continued  to  the  southward,  glid 
ing  quietly  over  the  oil-smoothness  of  the  ocean  under 
airs  so  light  as  hardly  to  ruffle  the  surface.  Sometimes 
at  high  noon  the  shimmer  of  the  ocean  floor  blended  into 
the  shimmer  of  the  sky  at  the  horizon,  and  then  it  was 
no  longer  water  and  blue  heavens ;  the  little  craft  seemed 
to  be  poised  in  a  vast  crystalline  sphere,  where  there 
was  neither  height  nor  depth — poised  motionless 
in  warm,  coruscating,  opalescent  space,  alone  with  the 
sun. 

At  length  one  morning  the  schooner,  which  for  the 
preceding  twenty-four  hours  had  been  heading  eastward, 
raised  the  land,  and  by  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  had 
come  up  to  within  a  mile  of  a  low,  sandy  shore,  quivering 
with  heat,  and  had  tied  up  to  the  kelp  in  Magdalena  Bay. 

Charlie  now  took  over  entire  charge  of  operations. 
For  two  days  previous  the  Chinese  hands  had  been 
getting  out  the  deck-tubs,  tackles,  gaffs,  spades,  and  the 
other  shark-fishing  gear  that  had  been  stowed  forward. 
The  sails  were  lowered  and  gasketted,  the  decks  cleared 
of  all  impedimenta,  hogsheads  and  huge  vats  stood 


242          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

ready  in  the  waist,  and  the  lazy  indolence  of  the  previous 
week  was  replaced  by  an  extraordinary  activity. 

The  day  after  their  arrival  in  the  bay  was  occupied  by 
all  hands  in  catching  bait.  This  bait  was  a  kind  of  rock- 
fish,  of  a  beautiful  red-gold  colour,  and  about  the  size  of 
an  ordinary  cod.  They  bit  readily  enough,  but  out  of 
every  ten  hooked  three  were  taken  off  the  lines  by  the 
sharks  before  they  could  be  brought  aboard.  Another 
difficulty  lay  in  the  fact  that,  either  because  of  the 
excessive  heat  in  the  air  or  the  percentage  of  alkali  in 
the  water,  they  spoiled  almost  immediately  if  left  in 
the  air. 

Turtle  were  everywhere — floating  gray-green  discs 
just  under  the  surface.  Sea-birds  in  clouds  clamoured 
all  day  long  about  the  shore  and  sand-spits.  At  long 
intervals  flying-fish  skitted  over  the  water  like  skipping- 
stones.  Shoals  of  porpoises  came  in  from  outside, 
leaping  clumsily  along  the  edges  of  the  kelp.  Bewildered 
land-birds  perched  on  the  schooner's  rigging,  and  in  the 
early  morning  the  whistling  of  quail  could  be  heard  on 
shore  near  where  a  little  fresh-water  stream  ran  down  to 
meet  the  ocean. 

It  was  Wilbur  who  caught  the  first  shark  on  the 
second  morning  of  the  Bertha's  advent  in  Magdalena 
Bay.  A  store  of  bait  had  been  accumulated,  split  and 
halved  into  chunks  for  the  shark-hooks,  and  Wilbur, 
baiting  one  of  the  huge  lines  that  had  been  brought  up 
on  deck  the  evening  before,  flung  it  overboard  and 
watched  the  glimmer  of  the  white  fish-meat  turning  to  a 
silvery  green  as  it  sank  down  among  the  kelp.  Almost 
instantly  a  long,  moving  shadow,  just  darker  than  the 
blue-green  mass  of  the  water,  identified  itself  at  a  little 
distance. 

Enormous  flukes  proceeded  from  either  side ;  an  erect 
dorsal  fin,  like  an  enormous  cock's  crest,  rose  from  the 


A  GIRL  CAPTAIN  243 

back;  while  immediately  over  the  head  swam  the  two 
pilot-fish,  following  so  closely  the  movement  of  the 
shark  as  to  give  the  impression  of  actually  adhering  to 
his  body.  Twice  and  three  times  the  great  man-eater, 
twelve  feet  from  snout  to  tail-tip,  circled  slowly  about 
the  bait,  the  flukes  moving  fan-like  through  the  water. 
Once  he  came  up,  touched  the  bait  with  his  nose,  and 
backed  easily  away.  He  disappeared,  returned,  and 
poised  himself  motionless  in  the  schooner's  shadow, 
feeling  the  water  with  his  flukes. 

Moran  was  looking  over  Wilbur's  shoulder.  ''He's  as 
good  as  caught,"  she  muttered;  "once  let  them  get  sight 

of  meat,  and Steady  now ! "  The  shark  moved 

forward.  Suddenly,  with  a  long,  easy  roll,  he  turned 
completely  upon  his  back.  His  white  belly  flashed  like 
silver  in  the  water — the  bait  disappeared. 

"You've  got  him!"  shouted  Moran. 

The  rope  slid  through  Wilbur's  palms,  burning  the 
skin  as  the  huge  sea-wolf  sounded.  Moran  laid  hold. 
The  heavy,  sullen  wrenching  from  below  twitched  and 
swayed  their  bodies  and  threw  them  against  each  other. 
Her  bare,  cool  arm  was  pressed  close  over  his  knuckles. 

"Heave!"  she  cried,  laughing  with  the  excitement  of 
the  moment.  "Heave  all!" — she  began  the  chant  of 
sailors  hauling  at  the  ropes.  Together,  and  bracing  their 
feet  against  the  schooner'  rail,  they  fought  out  the  fight 
with  the  great  fish.  In  a  swirl  of  lather  the  head  and 
shoulders  came  above  the  surface,  the  flukes  churning 
the  water  till  it  boiled  like  the  wake  of  a  screw  steamship. 
But  as  soon  as  these  great  fins  were  clear  of  the  surface 
the  shark  fell  quiet  and  helpless. 

Charlie  came  up  with  the  cutting-in  spade,  and  as 
the  fish  hung  still  over  the  side,  cut  him  open  from 
neck  to  belly  with  a  single  movement.  Another  China 
man  stood  by  with  a  long-handled  gaff,  hooked  out  the 


244          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

purple-black  liver,  brought  it  over  the  side,  and  dropped 
it  into  one  of  the  deck-tubs.  The  shark  thrashed  and 
writhed,  his  flukes  quivering  and  his  gills  distended. 
Wilbur  could  not  restrain  an  exclamation. 

"Brutal  business  !"  he  muttered. 

"Hoh!"  exclaimed  Moran,  scornfully,  "cutting-in  is 
too  good  for  him.  Sailorfolk  are  no  friends  of  such 
carrion  as  that." 

Other  lines  were  baited  and  dropped  overboard,  and 
the  hands  settled  themselves  to  the  real  business  of 
the  expedition.  There  was  no  skill  in  the  matter. 
The  sharks  bit  ravenously,  and  soon  swarmed  about  the 
schooner  in  hundreds.  Hardly  a  half-minute  passed 
that  one  of  the  four  Chinamen  that  were  fishing  did  not 
signal  a  catch,  and  Charlie  and  Jim  were  kept  busy 
with  spade  and  gaff.  By  noon  the  deck-tubs  were  full. 
The  lines  were  hauled  in,  and  the  hands  set  the  tubs  in 
the  sun  to  try  out  the  oil.  Under  the  tropical  heat 
the  shark-livers  almost  visibly  melted  away,  and  by  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  tubs  were  full  of  a  thick, 
yellow  oil,  the  reek  of  which  instantly  recalled  to  Wil 
bur's  mind  the  rancid  smell  of  the  schooner  on  the  day 
when  he  had  first  come  aboard  of  her.  The  deck-tubs 
were  emptied  into  the  hogsheads  and  vats  that  stood  in 
the  waist  of  the  Bertha,  the  tubs  scoured,  and  the  lines 
and  bent  shark-hooks  overhauled.  Charlie  disappeared 
in  the  galley,  supper  was  cooked,  and  eaten  upon  deck 
under  the  conflagration  of  the  sunset;  the  lights  were 
set,  the  Chinamen  foregathered  in  the  fo'c's'le  head, 
smoking  opium,  and  by  eight  o'clock  the  routine  of  the 
day  was  at  an  end. 

So  the  time  passed.  In  a  short  time  Wilbur  could  not 
have  said  whether  the  day  was  Wednesday  or  Sunday. 
He  soon  tired  of  the  unsportsmanlike  work  of  killing 
the  sluggish  brutes,  and  turned  shoreward  to  relieve  the 


A  GIRL  CAPTAIN  245 

monotony  of  the  succeeding  days.  He  and  Moran 
were  left  a  good  deal  to  their  own  devices.  Charlie 
was  the  master  of  the  men  now.  "Mate,"  said  Moran 
to  Wilbur  one  day,  after  a  dinner  of  turtle  steaks  and 
fish,  eaten  in  the  open  air  on  the  quarterdeck;  "mate, 
this  is  slow  work,  and  the  schooner  smells  terribly  foul. 
We'll  have  the  dory  out  and  go  ashore.  We  can  tumble 
a  cask  into  her  and  get  some  water.  The  butt's  three- 
quarters  empty.  Let's  see  how  it  feels  to  be  in  Mexico." 

"Mexico?"  said  Wilbur.  "That's  so  —  Lower  Cali 
fornia  is  Mexico.  I'd  forgotten  that !" 

They  went  ashore  and  spent  the  afternoon  in  rilling 
the  water-cask  from  the  fresh-water  stream  and  in 
gathering  abalones,  which  Moran  declared  were  delicious 
eating,  from  the  rocks  left  bare  by  the  tide.  But  nothing 
could  have  exceeded  the  loneliness  of  that  shore  and 
backland,  palpitating  under  the  flogging  of  a  tropical 
sun.  Low  hills  of  sand,  covered  with  brush,  stretched 
back  from  the  shore.  On  the  eastern  horizon,  leagues 
distant,  blue  masses  of  mountains,  striated  with  mirages, 
swam  in  the  scorching  air. 

The  sand  was  like  fire  to  the  touch.  Far  out  in  the 
bay  the  schooner  hung  motionless  under  bare  sticks, 
resting  apparently  upon  her  inverted  shadow  only. 
And  that  was  all — the  flat,  heat -ridden  land,  the  sheen 
of  the  open  Pacific,  and  the  lonely  schooner. 

"Quiet  enough,"  said  Wilbur,  in  a  low  voice,  wonder 
ing  if  there  was  such  a  place  as  San  Francisco,  with 
its  paved  streets  and  cable  cars,  and  if  people  who  had 
been  his  friends  there  had  ever  had  any  real  existence. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  asked  Moran  quickly,  facing  him, 
her  thumbs  in  her  belt. 

"It's  good  fun — how  about  you?" 

"It's  no  different  than  the  only  life  I've  known.  I 
suppose  you  think  it's  a  queer  kind  of  life  for  a  girl 


246          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

I've  lived  by  doing  things,  not  by  thinking  things,  or 
reading  about  what  other  people  have  done  or  thought ; 
and  I  guess  it's  what  you  do  that  counts,  rather  than 
what  you  think  or  read  about.  Where's  that  pinch-bar  ? 
We'll  get  a  couple  more  abalones  for  supper,  and  then 
put  off." 

That  was  the  only  talk  of  moment  they  had  during 
the  afternoon.  All  the  rest  of  their  conversation  had 
been  of  those  things  that  immediately  occupied  their 
attention. 

They  regained  the  schooner  toward  five  o'clock,  to 
find  the  Chinamen  perplexed  and  mystified.  No  explana 
tion  was  forthcoming,  and  Charlie  gave  them  supper 
in  preoccupied  silence.  As  they  were  eating  the  abalones 
which  Moran  had  fried  in  batter,  Charlie  said: 

"Shark  all  gone  !     No  more  catch  um — him  all  gone." 

"Gone — why?" 

"No  savvy,"  said  Charlie.  "No  likee,  no  likee. 
China  boy  tink  um  heap  funny,  too  much  heap  funny." 

It  was  true.  During  all  the  next  day  not  a  shark  was 
in  sight,  and  though  the  crew  fished  assiduously  till 
dark,  they  were  rewarded  by  not  so  much  as  a  bite. 
No  one  could  offer  any  explanation. 

"'Tis  strange,"  said  Moran.  "Never  heard  of  sharks 
leaving  this  feed  before.  And  you  can  see  with  half  an 
eye  that  the  hands  don't  like  the  looks  of  it.  Super 
stitious  beggars !  they  need  to  be  clumped  in  the  head." 

That  same  night  Wilbur  woke  in  his  hammock  on  the 
fo'c's'le  head  about  half -past  two.  The  moon  was  down, 
the  sky  one  powder  of  stars.  There  was  not  a  breath  of 
wind.  It  was  so  still  that  he  could  hear  some  large 
fish  playing  and  breaking  off  toward  the  shore.  Then, 
without  the  least  warning,  he  felt  the  schooner  begin 
to  lift  under  him.  He  rolled  out  of  his  hammock  and 
stood  on  the  deck.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  it — 


A  GIRL  CAPTAIN  247 

the  whole  forepart  was  rising  beneath  him.  He  could 
see  the  bowsprit  moving  upward  from  star  to  star. 
Still  the  schooner  lifted;  objects  on  deck  began  to  slide 
aft;  the  oil  in  the  deck-tubs  washed  over;  then,  as  there 
came  a  wild  scrambling  of  the  Chinese  crew  up  the 
fo'c's'le  hatch,  she  settled  again  gradually  at  first,  then, 
with  an  abrupt  lurch  that  almost  threw  him  from  his 
feet,  regained  her  level.  Moran  met  him  in  the  waist. 
Charlie  came  running  aft. 

"What  was  that?  Are  we  grounding?  Has  she 
struck?" 

"No,  no;  we're  still  fast  to  the  kelp.  Was  it  a  tidal 
wave?" 

"Nonsense.     It  wouldn't  have  handled  us  that  way." 

"Well,  what  was  it?  Listen!  For  God's  sake,  keep 
quiet  there  forward!" 

Wilbur  looked  over  the  side  into  the  water.  The 
ripples  were  still  chasing  themselves  away  from  the 
schooner.  There  was  nothing  else.  The  stillness  shut 
down  again.  There  was  not  a  sound, 


VI 

A  SEA  MYSTERY 

IN  spite  of  his  best  efforts  at  self-control,  Wilbur 
felt  a  slow,  cold  clutch  at  his  heart.  That  sickening, 
uncanny  lifting  of  the  schooner  out  of  the  glassy 
water,  at  a  time  when  there  was  not  enough  wind  to  so 
much  as  wrinkle  the  surface,  sent  a  creep  of  something 
very  like  horror  through  all  his  flesh. 

Again  he  peered  over  the  side,  down  into  the  kelp- 
thickened  sea.  Nothing — not  a  breath  of  air  was  stir 
ring.  The  gray  light  that  flooded  down  from  the  stars 
showed  not  a  break  upon  the  surface  of  Magdalena  Bay. 
On  shore  nothing  moved. 

"Quiet  there,  forward,"  called  Moran  to  the  shrill- 
voiced  coolies. 

The  succeeding  stillness  was  profound.  All  on  board 
listened  intently.  The  water  dripped  like  the  ticking  of 
a  clock  from  the  Bertha  Millner's  stern,  which  with  the 
rising  of  the  bow  had  sunk  almost  to  the  rail.  There 
was  no  other  sound. 

"  Strange, "  muttered  Moran,  her  brows  contracting. 

Charlie  broke  the  silence  with  a  wail:  "No  likee,  no 
likee ! "  he  cried  at  top  of  his  voice. 

The  man  had  gone  suddenly  green;  Wilbur  could  see 
the  shine  of  his  eyes  distended  like  those  of  a  harassed 
cat.  As  he,  Moran  and  Wilbur  stood  in  the  schooner's 
waist,  staring  at  each  other,  the  smell  of  punk  came  to 
their  nostrils.  Forward,  the  coolies  were  already  burn- 

248 


A  SEA  MYSTERY  249 

ing  joss-sticks  on  the  fo'c's'le  head,  kow-towing  their 
foreheads  to  the  deck. 

Moran  went  forward  and  kicked  them  to  their  feet  and 
hurled  their  joss-sticks  into  the  sea. 

"  Feng-shui !  Feng-shui ! "  they  exclaimed  with  bated 
breaths.  "The  Feng-shui  no  likee  we." 

Low  in  the  east  the  horizon  began  to  blacken  against 
the  sky.  It  was  early  morning.  A  watch  was  set,  the 
Chinamen  sent  below,  and  until  daybreak,  when  Charlie 
began  to  make  a  clattering  of  tins  in  the  galley  as  he  set 
about  preparing  breakfast,  Wilbur  paced  the  rounds  of 
the  schooner,  looking,  listening,  and  waiting  again  for 
that  slow,  horrifying  lift.  But  the  rest  of  the  night  was 
without  incident. 

After  breakfast,  the  strangely  assorted  trio — Charlie, 
Moran  and  Wilbur — held  another  conference  in  the  cabin. 
It  was  decided  to  move  the  schooner  to  the  other  side 
of  the  bay. 

" Feng-shui  in  disa  place;  no  likee  we,"  announced 
Charlie. 

"Feng-shui,  who  are  they?" 

Charlie  promptly  became  incoherent  on  this  subject, 
and  Moran  and  Wilbur  could  only  guess  that  the  Feng- 
shui  were  the  tutelary  deities  that  presided  over  that 
portion  of  Magdalena  Bay.  At  any  rate,  there  were 
evidently  no  more  sharks  to  be  caught  in  that  fishing- 
ground;  so  sail  was  made,  and  by  noon  the  Bertha 
Millner  tied  up  to  the  kelp  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
inlet,  about  half  a  mile  from  the  shore. 

The  sharks  were  plentiful  here,  and  the  fishing  went 
forward  again  as  before.  Certain  of  these  sharks  were 
hauled  aboard,  stunned  by  a  blow  on  the  nose,  and  their 
fins  cut  off.  The  Chinamen  packed  these  fins  away  in 
separate  kegs.  Eventually  they  would  be  sent  to  China. 

Two  or  three  days  passed.     The  hands  kept  steadily 


250          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

at  their  work.  Nothing  more  occurred  to  disturb  the 
monotony  of  the  scorching  days  and  soundless  nights; 
the  schooner  sat  as  easily  on  the  unbroken  water  as 
though  built  to  the  bottom.  Soon  the  night  watch  was 
discontinued.  During  these  days  the  three  officers  lived 
high.  Turtle  were  plentiful,  and  what  with  their  steaks 
and  soups,  the  fried  abalones,  the  sea-fish,  the  really 
delicious  shark-fins,  and  the  quail  that  Charlie  and 
Wilbur  trapped  along  the  shore,  the  trio  had  nothing  to 
wish  for  in  the  way  of  table  luxuries. 

The  shore  was  absolutely  deserted,  as  well  as  the  back 
country — an  unbroken  wilderness  of  sand  and  sage. 
Half  a  dozen  times  Wilbur,  wearying  of  his  inaction 
aboard  the  schooner,  made  the  entire  circuit  of  the  bay 
from  point  to  point.  Standing  on  one  of  the  latter 
projections  and  looking  out  to  the  west,  the  Pacific 
appeared  as  empty  of  life  as  the  land.  Never  a  keel  cut 
those  waters,  never  a  sail  broke  the  edge  of  the  horizon, 
never  a  feather  of  smoke  spotted  the  sky  where  it 
whitened  to  meet  the  sea.  Everything  was  empty — 
vast,  unspeakably  desolate — palpitating  with  heat. 

Another  week  passed.  Charlie  began  to  complain 
that  the  sharks  were  growing  scarce  again. 

"  I  think  bime-by  him  go  way,  once  a  mo'. " 

That  same  night,  Wilbur,  lying  in  his  hammock,  was 
awakened  by  a  touch  on  his  arm.  He  awoke  to  see 
Moran  beside  him  on  the  deck. 

"Did  you  hear  anything?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
looking  at  him  under  her  scowl. 

"No !  no !"  he  exclaimed,  getting  up,  reaching  for  his 
wicker  sandals.  "Did  you?" 

"I  thought  so — something.     Did  you  feel  anything?" 

"I've  been  asleep;  I  haven't  noticed  anything.  Is  it 
beginning  again  ? ' ' 

"The  schooner  lifted  again,  just  now,  very  gently.     I 


A   SEA  MYSTERY  251 

happened  to  be  awake  or  I  wouldn't  have  noticed  it." 
They  were  talking  in  low  voices,  as  is  the  custom  of 
people  speaking  in  the  dark. 

"There,  what's  that?"  exclaimed  Wilbur  under  his 
breath.  A  gentle  vibration,  barely  perceptible,  thrilled 
through  the  schooner.  Under  his  hand,  that  was  clasped 
upon  the  rail,  Wilbur  could  feel  a  faint  trembling  in  her 
frame.  It  stopped,  began  again,  and  died  slowly  away. 

"Well,  what  the  devil  is  it  ? "  he  muttered  impatiently, 
trying  to  master  the  returning  creep  of  dread. 

Moran  shook  her  head,  biting  her  lip. 

"It's  beyond  me,"  she  said,  frowning.  "Can  you  see 
anything?"  The  sky,  the  sea  and  land  were  unbroken 
reaches  of  solitude.  There  was  no  breath  of  wind. 

"  Listen, "  said  Moran.  Far  off  to  landward  came  the 
faint,  sleepy  clucking  of  a  quail,  and  the  stridulating  of 
unnumbered  crickets;  a  long  ripple  licked  the  slope  of 
the  beach  and  slid  back  into  the  ocean.  Wilbur  shook 
his  head. 

"Don't  you  hear  anything,"  he  whispered.  "Sh — 
there — she's  trembling  again." 

Once  more  a  prolonged  but  faint  quivering  ran 
through  the  Bertha  Millner  from  stem  to  stern  and  from 
keel  to  masthead.  There  was  a  barely  audible  creaking 
of  joints  and  panels.  The  oil  in  the  deck-tubs  trembled. 
The  vibration  was  so  fine  and  rapid  that  it  tickled  the 
soles  of  Wilbur's  feet  as  he  stood  on  the  deck. 

"I'd  give  two  fingers  to  know  what  it  all  means," 
murmured  Moran  in  a  low  voice.  "I've  been  to  sea 

for "  Then  suddenly  she  cried  aloud:  "Steady 

all;  she's  lifting  again  !" 

The  schooner  heaved  slowly  under  them,  this  time  by 
the  stern.  Up  she  went,  up  and  up,  while  Wilbur 
gripped  at  a  stay  to  keep  his  place,  and  tried  to  choke 
down  his  heart,  that  seemed  to  beat  against  his  palate. 


2  s  2          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

"God!"  ejaculated  Moran,  her  eyes  blazing.  "This 
thing  is —  The  Bertha  Millner  came  suddenly  down 

to  an  easy  keel,  rocking  in  that  glassy  sea  as  if  in  a  tide-rip. 
The  deck  was  awash  with  oil.  Far  out  in  the  bay  the 
ripples  widening  from  the  schooner  blurred  the  reflections 
of  the  stars.  The  Chinamen  swarmed  up  the  hatchway, 
voluble  and  shrill.  Again  the  Bertha  Millner  lifted  and 
sank,  the  tubs  sliding  on  the  deck,  the  masts  quivering 
like  reeds,  the  timbers  groaning  aloud  with  the  strain. 
In  the  stern  something  cracked  and  smashed.  Then 
the  trouble  died  away,  the  ripples  faded  into  the  ocean, 
and  the  schooner  settled  to  her  keel,  quite  motionless. 

"Look,"  said  Moran,  her  face  toward  the  Bertha's 
stern.  "The  rudder  is  out  of  the  gudgeons."  It  was 
true — the  Bertha  Millner' s  helm  was  unshipped. 

There  was  no  more  sleep  for  any  one  on  board  that 
night.  Wilbur  tramped  the  quarterdeck,  sick  with  a 
feeling  he  dared  not  put  a  name  to.  Moran  sat  by  the 
wrecked  rudder-head,  a  useless  pistol  in  her  hand, 
swearing  under  her  breath  from  time  to  time.  Charlie 
appeared  on  the  quarterdeck  at  intervals,  looked  at 
Wilbur  and  Moran  with  wide-open  eyes,  and  then  took 
himself  away.  On  the  forward  deck  the  coolies  pasted 
strips  of  red  paper  inscribed  with  mottoes  upon  the  mast, 
and  filled  the  air  with  the  reek  of  their  joss-sticks. 

"If  one  could  only  see  what  it  was,"  growled  Moran 
between  her  clenched  teeth.  "But  this — this  damned 
heaving  and  trembling,  it — it's  queer." 

"That's  it,  that's  it,"  said  Wilbur  quickly,  facing  her. 
"What  are  we  going  to  do,  Moran?" 

" Stick  it  out!"  she  exclaimed,  striking  her  knee  with 
her  fist.  "We  can't  leave  the  schooner — I  wont  leave 
her.  I'll  stay  by  this  dough-dish  as  long  as  two  planks 
in  her  hold  together.  Were  you  thinking  of  cutting 
away  ?"  She  fixed  him  with  her  frown. 


A  SEA  MYSTERY  253 

Wilbur  looked  at  her,  sitting  erect  by  the  disabled 
rudder,  her  head  bare,  her  braids  of  yellow  hair  hanging 
over  her  breast,  sitting  there  in  man's  clothes  and  man's 
boots,  the  pistol  at  her  side.  He  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  not  leaving  the  Bertha  till  you  do,"  he  answered; 
adding:  "I'll  stand  by  you,  mate,  until  we — 

"Feel  that?"  said  Moran,  holding  up  a  hand. 

A  fine,  quivering  tremble  was  thrilling  through  every 
beam  of  the  schooner,  vibrating  each  rope  like  a  harp- 
string.  It  passed  away;  but  before  either  Wilbur  or 
Moran  could  comment  upon  it  it  recommenced,  this  time 
much  more  perceptibly.  Charlie  dashed  aft,  his  queue 
flying. 

"W'at  makum  heap  shake?"  he  shouted;  "w'at  for 
him  shake?  No  savvy,  no  likee,  pretty  much  heap 
flaid;  aie-yah,  aie-yah !" 

Slowly  the  schooner  heaved  up  as  though  upon  the 
crest  of  some  huge  wave,  slowly  it  settled,  and  again 
gradually  lifted,  till  Wilbur  had  to  catch  at  the  rail  to 
steady  his  footing.  The  quivering  sensation  increased 
so  that  their  very  teeth  chattered  with  it.  Below  in  the 
cabin  they  could  hear  small  objects  falling  from  the 
shelves  and  table.  Then  with  a  sudden  drop  the  Bertha 
fell  back  to  her  keel  again,  the  spilled  oil  spouting  from 
her  scuppers,  the  masts  rocking,  the  water  churning 
and  splashing  from  her  sides. 

And  that  was  all.  There  was  no  sound — nothing  was 
in  sight.  There  was  only  one  frightened  trembling  of 
the  little  schooner  and  that  long,  slow  heave  and  lift. 

Morning  came,  and  breakfast  was  had  in  silence  and 
grim  perplexity.  It  was  too  late  to  think  of  getting 
away,  now  that  the  rudder  was  disabled.  The  Bertha 
Millner  must  bide  where  she  was. 

"And  a  little  more  of  this  dancing,"  exclaimed  Moran, 
"and  we'll  have  the  planks  springing  off  the  stern-post." 


254          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

Charlie  nodded  solemnly.  He  said  nothing — his 
gravity  had  returned.  Now  in  the  glare  of  the  tropical 
day,  with  the  Bertha  Millner  sitting  the  sea  as  placidly 
as  a  brooding  gull,  he  was  Talleyrand  again. 

"I  tinkum  yas,"  he  said  vaguely. 

"Well,  /  think  we  had  better  try  and  fix  the  rudder 
and  put  back  to  'Frisco,"  said  Moran.  "You're  making 
no  money  this  way.  There  are  no  sharks  to  be  caught. 
Something's  wrong.  They're  gone  away  somewhere. 
The  crew  are  eating  their  heads  off  and  not  earning 
enough  money  to  pay  for  their  keep.  What  do  you 
think?" 

"I  tinkum  yas." 

"Then  we'll  go  home.     Is  that  it?" 

"I  tinkum  yas — to-molla." 

"To-morrow?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  settled  then,"  persisted  Moran,  surprised  at 
his  ready  acquiescence;  "we  start  home  to-morrow?" 
Charlie  nodded. 

"To-molla,"  he  said. 

The  rudder  was  not  so  badly  damaged  as  they  had  at 
first  supposed;  the  break  was  easily  mended,  but  it  was 
found  necessary  for  one  of  the  men  to  go  over  the  side. 

"Get  over  the  side  here,  Jim,"  commanded  Moran. 
"Charlie,  tell  him  what's  wanted;  we  can't  work  the 
pintle  in  from  the  deck." 

But  Charlie  shook  his  head. 

"Him  no  likee  go;  him  plenty  much  flaid." 

Moran  ripped  out  an  oath. 

"What  do  I  care  if  he's  afraid !  I  want  him  to  shove 
the  pintle  into  the  lower  gudgeon.  My  God,"  she  ex 
claimed,  with  immense  contempt,  "what  carrion !  I'd 
sooner  work  a  boat  with  she-monkeys.  Mr.  Wilbur,  I 
shall  have  to  ask  you  to  go  over.  I  thought  I  was 


A   SEA   MYSTERY  255 

captain  here,  but  it  all  depends  on  whether  these  rats  are 
afraid  or  not." 

"Plenty  many  shark,"  expostulated  Charlie.  "Him 
flaid  shark  come  back,  catchum  chop-chop." 

"Stand  by  here  with  a  couple  of  cutting-in  spades," 
cried  Moran,  "and  fend  off  if  you  see  any  shark;  now, 
then,  are  you  ready,  mate?" 

Wilbur  took  his  determination  in  both  hands,  threw 
off  his  coat  and  sandals,  and  went  over  the  stern  rail. 

"Put  your  ear  to  the  water,"  called  Moran  from 
above;  "sometimes  you  can  hear  their  flukes." 

It  took  but  a  minute  to  adjust  the  pintle,  and  Wilbur 
regained  the  deck  again,  dripping  and  a  little  pale.  He 
knew  not  what  horrid  form  of  death  might  have  been 
lurking  for  him  down  below  there  underneath  the  kelp. 
As  he  started  forward  for  dry  clothes  he  was  surprised  to 
observe  that  Moran  was  smiling  at  him,  holding  out  her 
hand. 

"That  was  well  done,"  she  said,  "and  thank  you. 
I've  seen  older  sailor-men  than  you  who  wouldn't  have 
taken  the  risk. "  Never  before  had  she  appeared  more 
splendid  in  his  eyes  than  at  this  moment.  After  chang 
ing  his  clothes  in  the  fo'c's'le,  he  sat  for  a  long  time, 
his  chin  in  his  hands,  very  thoughtful.  Then  at  length, 
as  though  voicing  the  conclusion  of  his  reflections,  said 
aloud,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet : 

"  But,  of  course,  that  is  out  of  the  question. " 

He  remembered  that  they  were  going  home  on  the 
next  day.  Within  a  fortnight  he  would  be  in  San 
Francisco  again — a  taxpayer,  a  police-protected  citizen 
once  more.  It  had  been  good  fun,  after  all,  this  three 
weeks'  life  on  the  Bertha  Millner,  a  strange  episode  cut 
out  from  the  normal  circle  of  his  conventional  life.  He 
ran  over  the  incidents  of  the  cruise — Kitchell,  the  turtle 
hunt,  the  finding  of  the  derelict,  the  dead  captain,  the 


256          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

squall  and  the  awful  sight  of  the  sinking  bark,  Moran  at 
the  wheel,  the  grewsome  business  of  the  shark-fishing, 
and  last  of  all  that  inexplicable  lifting  and  quivering  of 
the  schooner.  He  told  himself  that  now  he  would 
probably  never  know  the  explanation  of  that 
mystery. 

The  day  passed  in  preparations  to  put  to  sea  again. 
The  deck-tubs  and  hogsheads  were  stowed  below  and  the 
tackle  cleared  away.  By  evening  all  was  ready;  they 
would  be  under  way  by  daybreak  the  next  morning. 
There  was  a  possibility  of  their  being  forced  to  tow  the 
schooner  out  by  means  of  the  dory,  so  light  were  the  airs 
inside.  Once  beyond  the  heads,  however,  they  were 
sure  of  a  breeze. 

About  ten  o'clock  that  night  the  same  uncanny 
trembling  ran  through  the  schooner  again,  and  about 
half  an  hour  later  she  lifted  gently  once  or  twice.  But 
after  that  she  was  undisturbed. 

Later  on  in  the  night — or  rather  early  in  the  morning — 
Wilbur  woke  suddenly  in  his  hammock  without  knowing 
why,  and  got  up  and  stood  listening.  The  Bertha 
Millner  was  absolutely  quiet.  The  night  was  hot  and 
still;  the  new  moon,  canted  over  like  a  sinking  galleon, 
was  low  over  the  horizon.  Wilbur  listened  intently,  for 
now  at  last  he  heard  something. 

Between  the  schooner  and  the  shore  a  gentle  sound  of 
splashing  came  to  his  ears,  and  an  occasional  crack  as  of 
oars  in  their  locks.  Was  it  possible  that  a  boat  was 
there  between  the  schooner  and  the  land?  What  boat, 
and  manned  by  whom? 

The  creaking  of  oarlocks  and  the  dip  of  paddles  was 
unmistakable. 

Suddenly  Wilbur  raised  his  voice  in  a  great  shout : 

"Boat  ahoy!" 

There  was  no  answer;  the  noise  of  oars  grew  fainter. 


A  SEA   MYSTERY  257 

Moran  came  running  out  of  her  cabin,  swinging  into  her 
coat  as  she  ran. 

"What  is  it— what  is  it?" 

"A  boat,  I  think,  right  off  the  schooner  here.  Hark — 
there — did  you  hear  the  oars  ? " 

"You're  right;  call  the  hands,  get  the  dory  over,  we'll 
follow  that  boat  right  up.  Hello,  forward  there,  Charlie, 
all  hands,  tumble  out !" 

Then  Wilbur  and  Moran  caught  themselves  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes.  At  once  something — perhaps 
the  latent  silence  of  the  schooner — told  them  there  was 
to  be  no  answer.  The  two  ran  forward;  Moran  swung 
herself  into  the  fo'c's'le  hatch,  and  without  using  the 
ladder  dropped  to  the  deck  below.  In  an  instant  her 
voice  came  up  to  the  hatch: 

"The  bunks  are  empty — they're  gone — abandoned 
us. "  She  came  up  the  ladder  again. 

"  Look, "  said  Wilbur,  as  she  regained  the  deck.  "The 
dory's  gone;  they've  taken  it.  It  was  our  only  boat; 
we  can't  get  ashore. " 

"Cowardly,  superstitious  rats,  I  should  have  expected 
this.  They  would  be  chopped  in  bits  before  they  would 
stay  longer  on  board  this  boat — they  and  their  Feng- 
shui. " 

When  morning  came  the  deserters  could  be  made  out 
camped  on  the  shore,  near  to  the  beached  dory.  What 
their  intentions  were  could  not  be  conjectured.  Ridden 
with  all  manner  of  nameless  Oriental  superstitions,  it 
was  evident  that  the  Chinamen  preferred  any  hazard  of 
fortune  to  remaining  longer  upon  the  schooner. 

"Well,  can  we  get  along  without  them?"  said  Wilbur. 
"  Can  we  two  work  the  schooner  back  to  port  ourselves  ? " 

"We'll  try  it  on,  anyhow,  mate,"  said  Moran.  "We 
might  get  her  into  San  Diego,  anyhow." 

The  Chinamen  had  left  plenty  of  provisions  on  board, 


258          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

and  Moran  cooked  breakfast.  Fortunately,  by  eight 
o'clock  a  very  light  westerly  breeze  came  up.  Moran 
and  Wilbur  cast  off  the  gaskets  and  set  the  fore  and 
main  sails. 

Wilbur  was  busy  at  the  forward  bitts  preparing  to 
cast  loose  from  the  kelp,  and  Moran  had  taken  up  her 
position  at  the  wheel,  when  suddenly  she  exclaimed: 

"Sail  ho ! — and  in  God's  name  what  kind  of  a  sail  do 
you  call  it?" 

In  fact,  a  strange-looking  craft  had  just  made  her 
appearance  at  the  entrance  of  Magdalena  Bay. 


VII 
BEACHCOMBERS 

WILBUR  returned  aft  and  joined  Moran  on  the 
quarterdeck.  She  was  already  studying  the  stranger 
through  the  glass. 

"That's  a  new  build  of  boat  to  me,"  she  muttered, 
giving  Wilbur  the  glass.  Wilbur  looked  long  and  care 
fully.  The  newcomer  was  of  the  size  and  much  the 
same  shape  as  a  caravel  of  the  fifteenth  century — high 
as  to  bow  and  stern,  and  to  all  appearances  as  seaworthy 
as  a  soup-tureen.  Never  but  in  the  old  prints  had  Wilbur 
seen  such  an  extraordinary  boat.  She  carried  a  single 
mast,  which  listed  forward;  her  lugsail  was  stretched 
upon  dozens  of  bamboo  yards;  she  drew  hardly  any 
water.  Two  enormous  red  eyes  were  painted  upon 
either  side  of  her  high,  blunt  bow,  while  just  abaft  the 
waist  projected  an  enormous  oar,  or  sweep,  full  forty 
feet  in  length — longer,  in  fact,  than  the  vessel  herself. 
It  acted  partly  as  a  propeller,  partly  as  a  rudder. 

"They're  heading  for  us,"  commented  Wilbur,  as 
Moran  took  the  glass  again. 

"Right,"  she  answered;  adding  upon  the  moment: 
"Huh!  more  Chinamen;  the  thing  is  alive  with  coolies. 
She's  a  junk." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Wilbur,  recollecting  some  talk  of 
Charlie's  he  had  overheard.  "I  know." 

"You  know?" 

"Yes;  these  are  real  beachcombers.  I've  heard  of 
them  along  this  coast — heard  our  Chinamen  speak  of 

259 


26o          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

them.  They  beach  that  junk  every  night  and  camp 
on  shore.  They're  scavengers,  as  you  might  say — pick 
up  what  they  can  find  or  plunder  along  shore — abalones, 
shark-fins,  pickings  of  wrecks,  old  brass  and  copper,  seals, 
perhaps,  turtle  and  shell.  Between  whiles  they  fish  for 
shrimp,  and  I've  heard  Kitchell  tell  how  they  make 
pearls  by  dropping  birdshot  into  oysters.  They  are 
Kai-gingh  to  a  man,  and,  according  to  Kitchell,  the 
wickedest  breed  of  cats  that  ever  cut  teeth." 

The  junk  bore  slowly  down  upon  the  schooner.  In  a 
few  moments  she  had  hove  to  alongside.  But  for  the 
enormous  red  eyes  upon  her  bow  she  was  innocent  of 
paint.  She  was  grimed  and  shellacked  with  dirt  and 
grease,  and  smelled  abominably.  Her  crew  were  China 
men;  but  such  Chinamen!  The  coolies  of  the  Bertha 
Millner  were  pampered  and  effete  in  comparison.  The 
beachcombers,  thirteen  in  number,  were  a  smaller  class 
of  men,  their  faces  almost  black  with  tan  and  dirt. 
Though  they  still  wore  the  queue,  their  heads  were  not 
shaven,  and  mats  and  mops  of  stiff  black  hair  fell  over 
their  eyes  from  under  their  broad,  basket -shaped  hats. 

They  were  barefoot.  None  of  them  wore  more  than 
two  garments — the  jeans  and  the  blouse.  They  were  the 
lowest  type  of  men  Wilbur  had  ever  seen.  The  faces 
were  those  of  a  higher  order  of  anthropoid  apes:  the 
lower  portion — jaws,  lips,  and  teeth — salient;  the  nostrils 
opening  at  almost  right  angles,  the  eyes  tiny  and  bright, 
the  forehead  seamed  and  wrinkled — unnaturally  old. 
Their  general  expression  was  one  of  simian  cunning  and 
a  ferocity  that  was  utterly  devoid  of  courage. 

"Ay!"  exclaimed  Moran  between  her  teeth,  "if  the 
devil  were  a  shepherd,  here  are  his  sheep.  You  don't 
come  aboard  this  schooner,  my  friends !  I  want  to  live 
as  long  as  I  can,  and  die  when  I  can't  help  it.  Boat 
ahoy!"  she  called. 


BEACHCOMBERS  261 

An  answer  in  Cantonese  sing-song  came  back  from  the 
junk,  and  the  speaker  gestured  toward  the  outside  ocean. 

Then  a  long  parleying  began.  For  upward  of  half  an 
hour  Moran  and  Wilbur  listened  to  a  proposition  in 
broken  pigeon-English  made  by  the  beachcombers 
again  and  again  and  yet  again,  and  were  in  no  way 
enlightened.  It  was  impossible  to  understand.  Then  at 
last  they  made  out  that  there  was  question  of  a  whale. 
Next  it  appeared  the  whale  was  dead;  and  finally, 
after  a  prolonged  pantomime  of  gesturing  and  pointing, 
Moran  guessed  that  the  beachcombers  wanted  the 
use  of  the  Bertha  Millner  to  trice  up  the  dead  leviathan 
while  the  oil  and  whalebone  were  extracted. 

"That  must  be  it,"  she  said  to  Wilbur.  "That's 
what  they  mean  by  pointing  to  our  masts  and  tackle. 
You  see,  they  couldn't  manage  with  that  stick  of  theirs, 
and  they  say  they'll  give  us  a  third  of  the  loot.  We'll 
do  it,  mate,  and  I'll  tell  you  why.  The  wind  has  fallen 
and  they  can  tow  us  out.  If  it's  a  sperm-whale  they've 
found,  there  ought  to  be  thirty  or  forty  barrels  of  oil 
in  him,  let  alone  the  blubber  and  bone.  Oil  is  at  $50 
now,  and  spermaceti  will  always  bring  $100.  We'll 
take  it  on,  mate,  but  we'll  keep  our  eyes  on  the  rats  all 
the  time.  I  don't  want  them  aboard  at  all.  Look  at 
their  belts.  Not  three  out  of  the  dozen  who  aren't 
carrying  those  filthy  little  hatchets.  Faugh !"  she 
exclaimed,  with  a  shudder  of  disgust.  "Such  vipers  !" 

What  followed  proved  that  Moran  had  guessed  cor 
rectly.  A  rope  passed  to  the  Bertha  Millner,  the  junk 
put  out  its  sweep,  and  to  a  wailing,  eldritch  chanting 
the  schooner  was  towed  out  of  the  bay. 

"I  wonder  what  Charlie  and  our  China  boys  will 
think  of  this?"  said  Wilbur,  looking  shoreward,  where 
the  deserters  could  be  seen  gathered  together  in  a  silent, 
observing  group. 


262          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

"We're  well  shut  of  them,"  growled  Moran,  her 
thumbs  in  her  belt.  "Only,  now  we'll  never  know  what 
was  the  matter  with  the  schooner  these  last  few  nights. 
Hah!"  she  exclaimed  under  her  breath,  her  scowl 
thickening,  "sometimes  I  don't  wonder  the  beasts  cut." 

The  dead  whale  was  lying  four  miles  out  of  the  entrance 
of  Magdalena  Bay,  and  as  the  junk  and  the  schooner 
drew  near  seemed  like  a  huge  black  boat  floating  bottom 
up.  Over  it  and  upon  it  swarmed  and  clamoured 
thousands  of  sea-birds,  while  all  around  and  below  the 
water  was  thick  with  gorging  sharks.  A  dreadful, 
strangling  decay  fouled  all  the  air. 

The  whale  was  a  sperm-whale,  and  fully  twice  the 
length  of  the  Bertha  Millner.  The  work  of  tricing  him 
up  occupied  the  beachcombers  throughout  the  entire 
day.  It  was  out  of  the  question  to  keep  them  off  the 
schooner,  and  Wilbur  and  Moran  were  too  wise  to  try. 
They  swarmed  the  forward  deck  and  rigging  like  a 
plague  of  unclean  monkeys,  climbing  with  an  agility 
and  nimbleness  that  made  Wilbur  sick  to  his  stomach. 
They  were  unlike  any  Chinamen  he  had  ever  seen — 
hideous  to  a  degree  that  he  had  imagined  impossible  in 
a  human  being.  On  two  occasions  a  fight  developed, 
and  in  an  instant  the  little  hatchets  were  flashing  like 
the  flash  of  a  snake's  fangs.  Toward  the  end  of  the  day 
one  of  them  returned  to  the  junk,  screaming  like  a 
stuck  pig,  a  bit  of  his  chin  bitten  off. 

Moran  and  Wilbur  kept  to  the  quarterdeck,  always 
within  reach  of  the  huge  cutting-in  spades,  but  the 
Chinese  beachcombers  were  too  elated  over  their  prize 
to  pay  them  much  attention. 

And  indeed  the  dead  monster  proved  a  veritable 
treasure-trove.  By  the  end  of  the  day  he  had  been 
triced  up  to  the  foremast,  and  all  hands  straining  at  the 
windlass  had  raised  the  mighty  head  out  of  the  water. 


BEACHCOMBERS  263 

The  Chinamen  descended  upon  the  smooth,  black  body, 
their  bare  feet  sliding  and  slipping  at  every  step.  They 
held  on  by  jabbing  their  knives  into  the  hide  as  glacier- 
climbers  do  their  ice-picks.  The  head  yielded  barrel 
after  barrel  of  oil  and  a  fair  quantity  of  bone.  The 
blubber  was  taken  aboard  the  junk,  minced  up  with 
hatchets,  and  run  into  casks. 

Last  of  all,  a  Chinaman  cut  a  hole  through  the  "  case, " 
and,  actually  descending  into  the  inside  of  the  head, 
stripped  away  the  spermaceti  (clear  as  crystal),  and 
packed  it  into  buckets,  which  were  hauled  up  on  the 
junk's  deck.  The  work  occupied  some  two  or  three  days. 
During  this  time  the  Bertha  Millner  was  keeled  over  to 
nearly  twenty  degrees  by  the  weight  of  the  dead  monster. 
However,  neither  Wilbur  nor  Moran  made  protest. 
The  Chinamen  would  do  as  they  pleased;  that  was  said 
and  signed.  And  they  did  not  release  the  schooner 
until  the  whale  had  been  emptied  of  oil  and  blubber, 
spermaceti  and  bone. 

At  length,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  the 
captain  of  the  junk,  whose  name  was  Hoang,  presented 
himself  upon  the  quarterdeck.  He  was  naked  to  the 
waist,  and  his  bare,  brown  torso  was  gleaming  with  oil 
and  sweat.  His  queue  was  coiled  like  a  snake  around 
his  neck,  his  hatchet  thrust  into  his  belt. 

"Well?"  said  Moran,  coming  up. 

Wilbur  caught  his  breath  as  the  two  stood  there  facing 
each  other,  so  sharp  was  the  contrast.  The  man,  the 
Mongolian,  small,  weazened,  leather-coloured,  secretive 
— strange,  complex  creature,  steeped  in  all  the  obscure 
mystery  of  the  East,  nervous,  ill  at  ease;  and  the  girl, 
the  Anglo-Saxon,  daughter  of  the  Northmen,  huge, 
blond,  big-boned,  frank,  outspoken,  simple  of  composi 
tion,  open  as  the  day,  bareheaded,  her  great  ropes  of 
sandy  hair  falling  over  her  breast  and  almost  to  the  top 


264          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

of  her  knee-boots.  As  he  looked  at  the  two,  Wilbur 
asked  himself  where  else  but  in  California  could  such 
abrupt  contrasts  occur. 

"All  light,"  announced  Hoang;  "cat chum  all  oil, 
catchum  all  bone,  catchum  all  same  plenty  many.  You 
help  catchum,  now  you  catchum  pay.  Sabe?" 

The  three  principals  came  to  a  settlement  with  unpre 
cedented  directness.  Like  all  Chinamen,  Hoang  was 
true  to  his  promises,  and  had  already  set  apart  three  and 
a  half  barrels  of  spermaceti,  ten  barrels  of  oil  and  some 
twenty  pounds  of  bone  as  the  schooner's  share  in  the 
transaction.  There  was  no  discussion  over  the  matter. 
He  called  their  attention  to  the  discharge  of  his  obliga 
tions,  and  hurried  away  to  summon  his  men  aboard  and 
get  the  junk  under  way  again. 

The  beachcombers  returned  to  their  junk,  and  Wilbur 
and  Moran  set  about  cutting  the  carcass  of  the  whale 
adrift.  They  found  it  would  be  easier  to  cut  away  the 
hide  from  around  the  hooks  and  loops  of  the  tackle  than 
to  unfasten  the  tackle  itself. 

"The  knots  are  jammed  hard  as  steel,"  declared 
Moran.  "  Hand  up  that  cutting-in  spade;  stand  by  with 
the  other  and  cut  loose  at  the  same  time  as  I  do,  so  we 
can  ease  off  the  strain  on  these  lines  at  the  same  time. 
Ready  there,  cut ! "  Moran  set  free  the  hook  in  the  loop 
of  black  skin  in  a  couple  of  strokes,  but  Wilbur  was  more 
clumsy;  the  skin  resisted.  He  struck  at  it  sharply  with 
the  heavy  spade;  the  blade  hit  the  iron  hook,  glanced  off, 
and  opened  a  large  slit  in  the  carcass  below  the  head.  A 
gush  of  entrails  started  from  the  slit,  and  Moran  swore 
under  breath. 

"Ease  away,  quick  there !  You'll  have  the  mast  out 
of  her  next.  Steady!  Hold  your  spade  !  What's  that?" 

Wilbur  had  nerved  himself  against  the  dreadful  stench 
he  expected  would  issue  from  the  putrid  monster,  but  he 


BEACHCOMBERS  265 

was  surprised  to  note  a  pungent,  sweet  and  spicy  odour 
that  all  at  once  made  thick  the  air  about  him.  It  was  an 
aromatic  smell,  stronger  than  that  of  the  salt  ocean, 
stronger  even  than  the  reek  of  oil  and  blubber  from  the 
schooner's  waist — sweet  as  incense,  penetrating  as  attar, 
delicious  as  a  summer  breeze. 

"It  smells  pretty  good,  whatever  it  is,"  he  answered. 
Moran  came  up  to  where  he  stood  and  looked  at  the 
slit  he  had  made  in  the  whale's  carcass.  Out  of  it  was 
bulging  some  kind  of  dull  white  matter  marbled  with 
gray.  It  was  a  hard  lump  of  irregular  shape  and  about 
as  big  as  a  hogshead. 

Moran  glanced  over  to  the  junk,  some  forty  feet  dis 
tant.  The  beachcombers  were  hoisting  the  lug-sail. 
Hoang  was  at  the  steering  oar. 

"  Get  that  stuff  aboard, "  she  commanded  quietly. 

"That!"  exclaimed  Wilbur,  pointing  to  the  lump. 

Moran's  blue  eyes  were  beginning  to  gleam. 

"Yes,  and  do  it  before  the  Chinamen  see  you." 

"But — but  I  don't  understand." 

Moran  stepped  to  the  quarterdeck,  unslung  the  ham 
mock  in  which  Wilbur  slept,  and  tossed  it  to  him. 

"Reeve  it  up  in  that;  I'll  pass  you  a  line,  and  we'll 
haul  it  aboard.  Godsend,  those  vermin  yonder  have 
got  smells  enough  of  their  own  without  noticing  this. 
Hurry,  mate,  I'll  talk  afterward." 

Wilbur  went  over  the  side,  and,  standing  as  best  he 
could  upon  the  slippery  carcass,  dug  out  the  lump  and 
bound  it  up  in  the  hammock. 

"Hoh!"  exclaimed  Moran,  with  sudden  exultation. 
"  There's  a  lot  of  it.  That's  the  biggest  lump  yet,  I'll  be 
bound.  Is  that  all  there  is,  mate? — look  carefully." 
Her  voice  had  dropped  to  a  whisper . 

"Yes,  yes;  that's  all.  Careful  now  when  you  haul  up 
— Hoang  has  got  his  eye  on  you,  and  so  have  the  rest  of 


266          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

them.  What  do  you  call  it,  anyhow?  Why  are  you  so 
particular  about  it?  Is  it  worth  anything?" 

"I  don't  know — perhaps.  We'll  have  a  look  at  it, 
anyway." 

Moran  hauled  the  stuff  aboard,  and  Wilbur  followed. 

"Whew!"  he  exclaimed  with  half -closed  eyes.  "It's 
like  the  story  of  Samson  and  the  dead  lion — the  sweet 
coming  forth  from  the  strong. " 

The  schooner  seemed  to  swim  in  a  bath  of  perfumed 
air ;  the  membrane  of  the  nostrils  fairly  pringled  with  the 
sensation.  Moran  unleashed  the  hammock,  and  going 
down  upon  one  knee  examined  the  lump  attentively. 

"It  didn't  seem  possible, "  Wilbur  heard  her  saying  to 
herself;  "but  there  can't  be  any  mistake.  It's  the  stuff, 
right  enough.  I've  heard  of  such  things,  but  this — but 
this She  rose  to  her  feet,  tossing  back  her  hair. 

"Well,"  said  Wilbur,  "what  do  you  call  it?" 

"The  thing  to  do  now,"  returned  Moran,  "is  to  get 
clear  of  here  as  quickly  and  as  quietly  as  we  can,  and 
take  this  stuff  with  us.  I  can't  stop  to  explain  now,  but 
it's  big — it's  big.  Mate,  it's  big  as  the  Bank  of  England." 

"Those  beachcombers  are  right  on  to  the  game,  I'm 
afraid,"  said  Wilbur.  "Look,  they're  watching  us. 
This  stuff  would  smell  across  the  ocean. " 

"Rot  the  beachcombers!  There's  a  bit  of  wind, 
thank  God,  and  we  can  do  four  knots  to  their  one,  just 
let  us  get  clear  once." 

Moran  dragged  the  hammock  back  into  the  cabin, 
and  returning  upon  deck,  helped  Wilbur  to  cut  away  the 
last  tricing  tackle.  The  schooner  righted  slowly  to  an 
even  keel.  Meanwhile  the  junk  had  set  its  one  lug-sail 
and  its  crew  had  run  out  the  sweeps.  Hoang  took  the 
steering  sweep  and  worked  the  junk  to  a  position  right 
across  the  Bertha's  bows,  some  fifty  feet  ahead. 

"They're  watching  us,  right  enough,"  said  Wilbur. 


BEACHCOMBERS  267 

"Up  your  mains'l,"  ordered  Moran.  The  pair  set  the 
fore  and  main  sails  with  great  difficulty.  Moran  took 
the  wheel  and  Wilbur  went  forward  to  cast  off  the  line 
by  which  the  schooner  had  been  tied  up  to  one  of  the 
whale's  flukes. 

"Cut  it !"  cried  the  girl.     "Don't  stop  to  cast  off." 

There  was  a  hail  from  the  beachcombers;  the  port 
sweeps  dipped  and  the  junk  bore  up  nearer. 

"Hurry!"  shouted  Moran,  "don't  mind  them.  Are 
we  clear  for'ard — what's  the  trouble?  Something's 
holding  her."  The  schooner  listed  slowly  to  starboard 
and  settled  by  the  head. 

"All  clear!"  cried  Wilbur. 

"There's  something  wrong!"  exclaimed  Moran;  "she's 
settling  for'ard."  Hoang  hailed  the  schooner  a  second 
time. 

"We're  still  settling,"  called  Wilbur  from  the  bows, 
"what's  the  matter?" 

"Matter  that  she's  taking  water,"  answered  Moran 
wrathfully.  "She's  started  something  below,  what 
with  all  that  lifting  and  dancing  and  tricing  up." 

Wilbur  ran  back  to  the  quarterdeck. 

"This  is  a  bad  fix,"  he  said  to  Moran.  "Those  chaps 
are  coming  aboard  again.  They're  onto  something, 
and,  of  course,  at  just  this  moment  she  begins  to  leak." 

"They  are  after  that  ambergris,"  said  Moran  between 
her  teeth.  "Smelt  it,  of  course — the  swine !" 

"Ambergris?" 

"The  stuff  we  found  in  the  whale.     That's  ambergris." 

"Well?" 

"Well!"  shouted  Moran,  exasperated.  "Do  you 
know  that  we  have  found  a  lump  that  will  weigh  close 
to  250  pounds,  and  do  you  know  that  ambergris  is 
selling  in  San  Francisco  at  $40  an  ounce?  Do  you 
know  that  we  have  picked  up  nearly  $150,000  right 


268          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

out  of  here  in  the  ocean  and  are  in  a  fair  way  to  lose 
it  all?" 

"Can't  we  run  for  it?" 

"Run  for  it  in  a  boat  that's  taking  water  like  a  sack ! 
Our  dory's  gone.  Suppose  we  got  clear  of  the  junk,  and 
the  Bertha  sank?  Then  what?  If  we  only  had  our 
crew  aboard;  if  we  were  only  ten  to  their  dozen — 
if  we  were  only  six — by  Jupiter !  I'd  fight  them 
for  it." 

The  two  enormous  red  eyes  of  the  junk  loomed  along 
side  and  stared  over  into  the  Bertha's  waist.  Hoang 
and  seven  of  the  coolies  swarmed  aboard. 

"What  now?"  shouted  Moran,  coming  forward  to 
meet  them,  her  scowl  knotting,  her  flashing  eyes  together. 
"Is  this  ship  yours  or  mine?  We've  done  your  dirty 
work  for  you.  I  want  you  clear  of  my  deck."  Wilbur 
stood  at  her  side,  uncertain  what  to  do,  but  ready  for 
anything  she  should  attempt. 

"I  tink  you  catchum  someting,  smellum  pretty  big," 
said  Hoang,  his  ferret  glance  twinkling  about  the 
schooner. 

"I  catchum  nothing — nothing  but  plenty  bad  stink," 
said  Moran.  "No,  you  don't!"  she  exclaimed,  putting 
herself  in  Hoang's  way  as  he  made  for  the  cabin.  The 
other  beachcombers  came  crowding  up;  Wilbur  even 
thought  he  saw  one  of  them  loosening  his  hatchet  in 
his  belt. 

"This  ship's  mine,"  cried  Moran,  backing  to  the 
cabin  door.  Wilbur  followed  her,  and  the  Chinamen 
closed  down  upon  the  pair. 

"It's  not  much  use,  Moran,"  he  muttered.  "They'll 
rush  us  in  a  minute." 

"But  the  ambergris  is  mine — is  mine,"  she  answered, 
never  taking  her  eyes  from  the  confronting  coolies. 

"We  findum  w'ale,"  said  Hoang;  "you  no  find  w'ale; 


BEACHCOMBERS  269 

him  b'long  to  we — eve'yt'ing  in  um  w'ale  b'long  to  we, 
savvy  ?" 

"No;  you  promised  us  a  third  of  everything  you 
found." 

Even  in  the  confusion  of  the  moment  it  occurred  to 
Wilbur  that  it  was  quite  possible  that  at  least  two-thirds 
of  the  ambergris  did  belong  to  the  beachcombers  by 
right  of  discovery.  After  all,  it  was  the  beachcombers 
who  had  found  the  whale.  He  could  never  remember 
afterward  whether  or  not  he  said  as  much  to  Moran  at 
the  time.  If  he  did,  she  had  been  deaf  to  it.  A  fury  of 
wrath  and  desperation  suddenly  blazed  in  her  blue  eyes. 
Standing  at  her  side,  Wilbur  could  hear  her  teeth  grind 
ing  upon  each  other.  She  was  blind  to  all  danger, 
animated  only  by  a  sense  of  injustice  and  imposition. 

Hoang  uttered  a  sentence  in  Cantonese.  One  of  the 
coolies  jumped  forward,  and  Moran's  fist  met  him  in 
the  face  and  brought  him  to  his  knees.  Then  came  the 
rush  Wilbur  had  foreseen.  He  had  just  time  to  catch  a 
sight  of  Moran  at  grapples  with  Hoang  when  a  little 
hatchet  glinted  over  his  head.  He  struck  out  savagely 
into  the  thick  of  the  group — and  then  opened  his  eyes  to 
find  Moran  washing  the  blood  from  his  hair  as  he  lay  on 
the  deck  with  his  head  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm.  Every 
thing  was  quiet.  The  beachcombers  were  gone. 

"Hello,  what — what — what  is  it?"  he  asked,  springing 
to  his  feet,  his  head  swimming  and  smarting.  "We  had 
a  row,  didn't  we?  Did  they  hurt  you?  Oh,  I  remem 
ber;  I  got  a  cut  over  the  head — one  of  their  hatchet 
men.  Did  they  hurt  you?" 

"They  got  the  loot,"  she  growled.  "Filthy  vermin! 
And  just  to  make  everything  pleasant,  the  schooner's 
sinking." 


VIII 
A  RUN  FOR  LAND 

"  SINKING  !"  exclaimed  Wilbur. 

Moran  was  already  on  her  feet.  "We'll  have  to 
beach  her,"  she  cried,  "and  we're  six  miles  out.  Up 
y'r  jib,  mate!"  The  two  set  the  jib,  flying  jib,  and 
staysails. 

The  fore  and  main  sails  were  already  drawing,  and 
under  all  the  spread  of  her  canvas  the  Bertha  raced 
toward  the  shore. 

But  by  the  time  she  was  within  the  head  of  the  bay 
her  stern  had  settled  to  such  an  extent  that  the  forefoot 
was  clear  of  the  water,  the  bowsprit  pointing  high  into 
the  heavens.  Moran  was  at  the  wheel,  her  scowl  thicker 
than  ever,  her  eyes  measuring  the  stretch  of  water  that 
lay  between  the  schooner  and  the  shore. 

"She'll  never  make  it  in  God's  world,"  she  muttered, 
as  she  listened  to  the  wash  of  the  water  in  the  cabin 
under  her  feet.  In  the  hold,  empty  barrels  were  afloat, 
knocking  hollowly  against  each  other.  "We're  in  a  bad 
way,  mate." 

"If  it  comes  to  that,"  returned  Wilbur,  surprised  to 
see  her  thus  easily  downcast,  who  was  usually  so  indom 
itable.  "If  it  comes  to  that,  we  can  swim  for  it — a 
couple  of  planks " 

"Swim?"  she  echoed;  "I'm  not  thinking  of  that;  of 
course  we  could  swim." 

"What  then?" 

"The  sharks!" 

270 


A  RUN   FOR  LAND  271 

Wilbur's  teeth  clicked  sharply  together.  He  could 
think  of  nothing  to  say. 

As  the  water  gained  between  decks  the  schooner's 
speed  dwindled,  and  at  the  same  time  as  she  approached 
the  shore  the  wind,  shut  off  by  the  land,  fell  away.  By 
this  time  the  ocean  was  not  four  inches  below  the  stern 
rail.  Two  miles  away  was  the  nearest  sand-spit. 
Wilbur  broke  out  a  distress  signal  on  the  foremast,  in 
the  hope  that  Charlie  and  the  deserters  might  send  off 
the  dory  to  their  assistance.  But  the  deserters  were 
nowhere  in  sight. 

"What  became  of  the  junk?"  he  demanded  suddenly 
of  Moran.  She  motioned  to  the  westward  with  her  head. 
"Still  laying  outside." 

Twenty  minutes  passed.     Once  only  Moran  spoke. 

"When  she  begins  to  go,"  she  said,  "she'll  go  with  a 
rush.  Jump  pretty  wide,  or  you'll  get  caught  in  the 
suction." 

The  two  had  given  up  all  hope.  Moran  held  grimly 
to  the  wheel  as  a  mere  matter  of  form.  Wilbur  stood  at 
her  side,  his  clenched  fists  thrust  into  his  pockets.  The 
eyes  of  both  were  fixed  on  the  yellow  line  of  the  distant 
beach.  By  and  by  Moran  turned  to  him  with  an  odd 
smile. 

"We're  a  strange  pair  to  die  together,"  she  said. 
Wilbur  met  her  eyes  an  instant,  but  finding  no  reply, 
put  his  chin  in  the  air  as  though  he  would  have  told  her 
she  might  well  say  that. 

"A  strange  pair  to  die  together,"  Moran  repeated; 

"but  we  can  do  that  better  than  we  could  have "she 

looked  away  from  him — "could  have  lived  together," 
she  finished,  and  smiled  again. 

"And  yet,"  said  Wilbur,  "these  last  few  weeks  here 
on  board  the  schooner  we  have  been  through  a  good  deal 
— together.  I  don't  know,"  he  went  on  clumsily,  "I 


2  y  2          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

don't  know  when  I've  been — when  I've  had — I've  been 
happier  than  these  last  weeks.  It  is  queer,  isn't  it  ?  I 
know,  of  course,  what  you'll  say.  I've  said  it  to  myself 
often  of  late.  /  belong  to  the  city  and  to  my  life  there, 
and  you — you  belong  to  the  ocean.  I  never  knew  a 
girl  like  you — never  knew  a  girl  could  be  like  you.  You 
don't  know  how  extraordinary  it  all  seems  to  me.  You 
swear  like  a  man,  and  you  dress  like  a  man,  and  I  don 't 
suppose  you've  ever  been  associated  with  other  women; 
and  you're  strong — I  know  you  are  as  strong  as  I  am. 
You  have  no  idea  how  different  you  are  to  the  kind  of 
girl  I've  known.  Imagine  my  kind  of  girl  standing  up 
before  Hoang  and  those  cutthroat  beachcombers  with 
their  knives  and  hatchets.  Maybe  it's  because  you  are 
so  unlike  my  kind  of  girl  that — that  things  are  as  they 
are  with  me.  /  don't  know.  It's  a  queer  situation.  A 
month  or  so  ago  I  was  at  a  tea  in  San  Francisco,  and  now 
I'm  aboard  a  shark-fishing  schooner  sinking  in  Magdalena 
Bay;  and  I'm  with  a  girl  that — that — that  I — well,  I'm 
with  you,  and,  well,  you  know  how  it  is — I  might  as  well 
say  it — I  love  you  more  than  I  imagined  I  ever  could 
love  a  girl. " 

Moran's  frown  came  back  to  her  forehead. 

"I  don't  like  that  kind  of  talk,"  she  said;  "I  am  not 
used  to  it,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  take  it.  Believe  me," 
she  said  with  a  half  laugh,  "it's  all  wasted.  /  never 
could  love  a  man.  I'm  not  made  for  men. " 

"No,"  said  Wilbur,  "nor  for  other  women  either." 

"Nor  for  other  women  either." 

Wilbur  fell  silent.  In  that  instant  he  had  a  distinct 
vision  of  Moran's  life  and  character,  shunning  men  and 
shunned  of  women,  a  strange,  lonely  creature,  solitary 
as  the  ocean  whereon  she  lived,  beautiful  after  her 
fashion;  as  yet  without  sex,  proud,  untamed,  splendid  in 
her  savage,  primal  independence — a  thing  untouched 


A   RUN   FOR  LAND  273 

and  unsullied  by  civilization.  She  seemed  to  him  some 
Bradamante,  some  mythical  Brunhilde,  some  Valkyrie 
of  the  legends  born  out  of  season,  lost  and  unfamiliar  in 
this  end-of-the-century  time.  Her  purity  was  the  purity 
of  primeval  glaciers.  He  could  easily  see  how  to  such  a 
girl  the  love  of  a  man  would  appear  only  in  the  light  of  a 
humiliation — a  degradation.  And  yet  she  could  love, 
else  how  had  he  been  able  to  love  her?  Wilbur  found 
himself — even  at  that  moment — wondering  how  the 
thing  could  be  done — wondering  to  just  what  note  the 
untouched  cords  would  vibrate — just  how  she  should 
be  awakened  one  morning  to  find  that  she — Moran,  sea- 
rover,  virgin  unconquered,  without  law,  without  land, 
without  sex — was,  after  all,  a  woman. 

"By  God,  mate!"  she  exclaimed  of  a  sudden.  "The 
barrels  are  keeping  us  up — the  empty  barrels  in  the  hold. 
Hoh  !  we'll  make  land  yet.  " 

It  was  true.  The  empty  hogsheads,  destined  for  the 
storage  of  oil,  had  been  forced  up  by  the  influx  of  the 
water  to  the  roof  of  the  hold,  and  were  acting  as  so  many 
buoys — the  schooner  could  sink  no  lower.  An  hour 
later,  the  quarterdeck  all  awash,  her  bow  thrown  high 
into  the  air,  listing  horribly  to  starboard,  the  Bertha 
Millner  took  ground  on  the  shore  of  Magdalena  Bay  at 
about  the  turn  of  the  tide. 

Moran  swung  herself  over  the  side,  hip  deep  in  the 
water,  and,  wading  ashore  with  a  line,  made  fast  to  the 
huge  skull  of  a  whale  half  buried  in  the  sand  at  that 
point. 

Wilbur  followed.  The  schooner  had  grounded  upon 
the  southern  horn  of  the  bay  and  lay  easily  on  a  spit  of 
sand.  They  could  not  examine  the  nature  of  the  leak 
until  low  water  the  next  morning. 

"Well,  here  we  are,"  said  Moran,  her  thumbs  in  her 
belt.  "What  next?  We  may  be  here  for  two  days,  we 


2  74          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

may  be  here  for  two  years.  It  all  depends  upon  how 
bad  a  hole  she  has.  Have  we  'put  in  for  repairs,'  or 
have  we  been  cast  away ;  can't  tell  till  to-morrow  morn 
ing.  Meanwhile,  I'm  hungry. " 

Half  of  the  stores  of  the  schooner  were  water-soaked, 
but  upon  examination  Wilbur  found  that  enough 
remained  intact  to  put  them  beyond  all  fear  for  the 
present. 

"There's  plenty  of  water  up  the  creek,"  he  said,  "and 
we  can  snare  all  the  quail  we  want ;  and  then  there's  the 
fish  and  abalones.  Even  if  the  stores  were  gone  we  could 
make  out  very  well." 

The  schooner's  cabin  was  full  of  water  and  Wilbur's 
hammock  was  gone,  so  the  pair  decided  to  camp  on 
shore.  In  that  torrid  weather,  to  sleep  in  the  open  air 
was  a  luxury. 

In  great  good  spirits  the  two  sat  down  to  their  first 
meal  on  land.  Moran  cooked  a  supper  that,  barring  the 
absence  of  coffee,  was  delicious.  The  whisky  was  had 
from  aboard,  and  they  pledged  each  other,  standing  up, 
in  something  over  two  stiff  fingers. 

"Moran,"  said  Wilbur,  "you  ought  to  have  been  born 
a  man. " 

"At  all  events,  mate,"  she  said — "at  aft  events,  I'm 
not  a  girl." 

"  No ./"  exclaimed  Wilbur,  as  he  filled  his  pipe.  "  No, 
you're  just  Moran — Moran  of  the  Lady  Letty." 

"  And  I'll  stay  that,  too, "  she  said  decisively. 

Never  had  an  evening  been  more  beautiful  in  Wilbur's 
eyes.  There  was  not  a  breath  of  air.  The  stillness  was 
so  profound  that  the  faint  murmur  of  the  blood  behind 
the  eardrums  became  an  oppression.  The  ocean  tip 
toed  toward  the  land  with  tiny  rustling  steps.  The 
west  was  one  gigantic  stained  window,  the  ocean  floor 
a  solid  shimmer  of  opalescence.  Behind  them,  sullen 


A  RUN   FOR  LAND  275 

purples  marked  the  horizon,  hooded  with  mountain 
crests,  and  after  a  long  while  the  moon  shrugged  a  gleam 
ing  shoulder  into  view. 

Wilbur,  dressed  in  Chinese  jeans  and  blouse,  with 
Chinese  wicker  sandals  on  his  bare  feet,  sat  with  his  back 
against  the  whale's  skull,  smoking  quietly.  For  a  long 
time  there  was  no  conversation ;  then  at  last : 

"No,"  said  Moran  in  a  low  voice.  "This  is  the  life 
I'm  made  for.  In  six  years  I've  not  spent  three  con 
secutive  weeks  on  land.  Now  that  Eilert"  (she  always 
spoke  of  her  father  by  his  first  name)  "now  that  Eilert 
is  dead,  I've  not  a  tie,  not  a  relative,  not  even  a  friend, 
and  I  don't  wish  it. " 

"But  the  loneliness  of  the  life,  the  solitude,"  said 
Wilbur,  "that's  what  I  don't  understand.  Did  it  ever 
occur  to  you  that  the  best  happiness  is  the  happiness 
that  one  shares?" 

Moran  clasped  a  knee  in  both  hands  and  looked  out  to 
sea.  She  never  wore  a  hat,  and  the  red  light  of  the  after 
glow  was  turning  her  rye-hued  hair  to  saffron. 

"Hoh!"  she  exclaimed,  her  heavy  voice  pitched  even 
lower  than  usual.  "Who  could  understand  or  share 
any  of  my  pleasures,  or  be  happy  when  I'm  happy? 
And,  besides,  I'm  happiest  when  I'm  alone — I  don't 
want  any  one. " 

"But,"  hesitated  Wilbur,  "one  is  not  always  alone. 
After  all,  you  are  a  girl,  and  men,  sailor-men  especially, 
are  beasts  when  it's  a  question  of  a  woman — an  unpro 
tected  woman. " 

"I'm  stronger  than  most  men,"  said  Moran  simply. 
"If  you,  for  instance,  had  been  like  some  men,  I  should 
have  fought  you.  It  wouldn't  have  been  the  first  time, " 
she  added,  smoothing  one  huge  braid  between  her 
palms. 

Wilbur  looked  at  her  with  intent  curiosity — noted 


276          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

again,  as  if  for  the  first  time,  the  rough,  blue  overalls 
thrust  into  the  shoes ;  the  coarse  flannel  shirt  open  at  the 
throat;  the  belt  with  its  sheath-knife;  her  arms  big  and 
white  and  tattooed  in  sailor  fashion;  her  thick,  muscular 
neck;  her  red  face,  with  its  pale-blue  eyes  and  almost 
massive  jaw;  and  her  hair — her  heavy,  yellow,  fragrant 
hair,  that  lay  over  her  shoulder  and  breast,  coiling  and 
looping  in  her  lap. 

"No,"  he  said,  with  a  long  breath,  "I  don't  make  it 
out.  I  knew  you  were  out  of  my  experience,  but  I 
begin  to  think  now  that  you  are  out  of  even  my  imagina 
tion.  You  are  right;  you  should  keep  to  yourself.  You 
should  be  alone — your  mate  isn't  made  yet.  You  are 
splendid  just  as  you  are,"  while  under  his  breath  he 
added,  his  teeth  clenching,  "and  God  !  but  I  love  you." 

It  was  growing  late,  the  stars  were  all  out,  the  moon 
riding  high.  Moran  yawned: 

"Mate,  I  think  I'll  turn  in.  We'll  have  to  be  at  that 
schooner  early  in  the  morning,  and  I  make  no  doubt 
she'll  give  us  plenty  to  do.  "  Wilbur  hesitated  to  reply, 
waiting  to  take  his  cue  from  what  next  she  should  say. 
"It's  hot  enough  to  sleep  where  we  are,"  she  added, 
"without  going  aboard  the  Bertha,  though  we  might 
have  a  couple  of  blankets  off  to  lie  on.  This  sand's  as 
hard  as  a  plank." 

Without  answering,  Wilbur  showed  her  a  couple  of 
blanket-rolls  he  had  brought  off  while  he  was  unloading 
part  of  the  stores  that  afternoon.  They  took  one  apiece 
and  spread  them  on  the  sand  by  the  bleached  whale's 
skull.  Moran  pulled  off  her  boots  and  stretched  herself 
upon  her  blanket  with  absolute  unconcern,  her  hands 
clasped  under  her  head.  Wilbur  rolled  up  his  coat  for 
a  pillow  and  settled  himself  for  the  night  with  an 
assumed  self-possession.  There  was  a  long  silence. 
Moran  yawned  again. 


A   RUN   FOR  LAND  277 

"I  pulled  the  heel  off  my  boot  this  morning, "  she  said 
lazily,  "and  I've  been  limping  all  day." 

"I  noticed  it,"  answered  Wilbur.  "Kitchell  had  a 
new  pair  aboard  somewhere,  if  they're  not  spoiled  by 
the  water  now." 

"Yes?"  she  said  indifferently.  "We'll  look  them  up  in 
the  morning. " 

Again  there  was  silence. 

"I  wonder, "  she  began  again,  staring  up  into  the  dark, 
"if  Charlie  took  that  frying-pan  off  with  him  when  he 
went?" 

"I  don't  know.     He  probably  did." 

"It  was  the  only  thing  we  had  to  cook  abalones  in. 
Make  me  think  to  look  into  the  galley  to-morrow.  .  .  . 
This  ground's  as  hard  as  nails,  for  all  your 
blankets.  .  .  .  Well,  good-night,  mate,  I'm  going 
to  sleep." 

"Good-night,  Moran. " 

Three  hours  later,  Wilbur,  who  had  not  closed  his  eyes, 
sat  up  and  looked  at  Moran,  sleeping  quietly,  her  head 
in  a  pale  glory  of  hair;  looked  at  her,  and  then  around 
him  at  the  silent,  deserted  land. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Am  I  a  right- 
minded  man  and  a  thoroughbred,  or  a  mush-head,  or 
merely  a  prudent,  sensible  sort  of  chap  that  values  his 
skin  and  bones  ?  I'd  be  glad  to  put  a  name  to  myself. " 
Then,  more  earnestly,  he  added:  "Do  I  love  her  too 
much,  or  not  enough,  or  love  her  the  wrong  way,  or 
how?"  He  leaned  toward  her,  so  close  that  he  could 
catch  the  savour  of  her  breath  and  the  smell  of  her 
neck,  warm  with  sleep.  The  sleeve  of  the  coarse  blue 
shirt  was  drawn  up,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  her  bare 
arm,  flung  out  at  full  length,  had  some  sweet  aroma  of 
its  own.  Wilbur  drew  softly  back. 

" No, "  he  said  to  himself  decisively;  "no,  I  guess  I  am 


278          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

a  thoroughbred  after  all."  It  was  only  then  that  he 
went  to  sleep. 

When  he  awoke  the  sea  was  pink  with  the  sunrise, 
and  one  of  the  bay  heads  was  all  distorted  and  stratified 
by  a  mirage.  It  was  hot  already.  Moran  was  sitting  a 
few  paces  from  him,  braiding  her  hair. 

"Hallo,  Moran !"  he  said,  rousing  up;  "how  long  have 
you  been  up?" 

"Since  before  sunrise,"  she  said;  "I've  had  a  bath  in 
the  cove  where  the  creek  runs  down.  I  saw  a  jack 
rabbit." 

"Seen  anything  of  Charlie  and  the  others?" 

"They've  camped  on  the  other  side  of  the  bay.  But 
look  yonder,"  she  added. 

The  junk  had  come  in  over  night,  and  was  about  a 
mile  and  a  half  from  shore. 

"The  deuce!"  exclaimed  Wilbur.  "What  are  they 
after?" 

"Fresh  water,  I  guess,"  said  Moran,  knotting  the  end 
of  a  braid.  "We'd  better  have  breakfast  in  a  hurry 
and  turn  to  on  the  Bertha.  The  tide  is  going  out  fast." 

While  they  breakfasted  they  kept  an  eye  on  the 
schooner,  watching  her  sides  and  flanks  as  the  water 
fell  slowly  away. 

"Don't  see  anything  very  bad  yet,"  said  Wilbur. 

"It's  somewheres  in  her  stern,"  remarked  Moran. 

In  an  hour's  time  the  Bertha  Millner  was  high  and 
dry  and  they  could  examine  her  at  their  leisure.  It 
was  Moran  who  found  the  leak. 

"Pshaw!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  half -laugh,  "we  can 
stick  that  up  in  half  an  hour." 

A  single  plank  had  started  away  from  the  stern-post; 
that  was  all.  Otherwise  the  schooner  was  as  sound  as 
the  day  she  left  San  Francisco.  Moran  and  Wilbur  had 
the  damage  repaired  by  noon,  nailing  the  plank  into  its 


A   RUN   FOR  LAND  279 

place  and  caulking  the  seams  with  lamp-wick.  Nor 
could  their  most  careful  search  discover  any  further 
injury. 

"We're  ready  to  go,"  said  Moran,  "so  soon  as  she'll 
float.  We  can  dig  away  around  the  bows  here,  make 
fast  a  line  to  that  rock  out  yonder,  and  warp  her  off  at 
next  high  tide.  Hello  !  Who's  this?" 

It  was  Charlie.  While  the  two  had  been  at  work, 
he  had  come  around  the  shore  unobserved,  and  now 
stood  at  some  little  distance,  smiling  at  them  calmly. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?"  cried  Moran  angrily. 
"If  you  had  your  rights,  my  friend,  you'd  be  keelhauled." 

"I  tink  um  velly  hot  day." 

"You  didn't  come  here  to  say  that.  What  do  you 
want?" 

"I  come  hab  talkee-talk." 

"We  don't  want  to  have  any  talkee-talk  with  such 
vermin  as  you.  Get  out !" 

Charlie  sat  down  on  the  beach  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

"I  come  buy  one-piecee  of  bacon.  China  boy  no  hab 
got." 

"We  aren't  selling  bacon  to  deserters,"  cried  Moran; 
"and  I'll  tell  you  this,  you  filthy  little  monkey:  Mr. 
Wilbur  and  I  are  going  home — back  to  'Frisco — this 
afternoon;  and  we're  going  to  leave  you  and  the  rest  of 
your  vipers  to  rot  on  this  beach,  or  to  be  murdered  by 
beachcombers,"  and  she  pointed  out  toward  the  junk. 
Charlie  did  not  even  follow  the  direction  of  her  gesture, 
and  from  this  very  indifference  Wilbur  guessed  that  it 
was  precisely  because  of  the  beachcombers  that  the 
Machiavellian  Chinaman  had  wished  to  treat  with  his 
old  officers. 

"No  hab  got  bacon?"  he  queried,  lifting  his  eyebrows 
in  surprise. 

"Plenty;  but  not  for  you." 


280          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

Charlie  took  a  buckskin  bag  from  his  blouse  and 
counted  out  a  handful  of  silver  and  gold. 

"I  buy  um  nisi  two-piecee  tobacco." 

"Look  here,"  said  Wilbur  deliberately;  "don't  you 
try  to  flimflam  us,  Charlie.  We  know  you  too  well. 
You  don't  want  bacon  and  you  don't  want  tobacco." 

"China  boy  heap  plenty  much  sick.  Two  boy  velly 
sick.  I  tink  um  die  pretty  soon  to-molla.  You  catch 
um  slop-chest;  you  gib  me  five,  seven  liver  pill. 
Sabe?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  want,"  cried  Moran,  aiming 
a  forefinger  at  him,  pistol  fashion;  "you've  got  a  blue 
funk  because  those  Kai-gingh  beachcombers  have  come 
into  the  bay,  and  you're  more  frightened  of  them  than 
you  are  of  the  schooner;  and  now  you  want  us  to  take 
you  home." 

"How  muchee?" 

"A  thousand  dollars." 

Wilbur  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  He  had  expected 
a  refusal. 

"You  no  hab  got  liver  pill?"  inquired  Charlie  blandly. 

Moran  turned  her  back  on  him.  She  and  Wilbur 
conferred  in  a  low  voice. 

"We'd  better  take  them  back,  if  we  decently  can," 
said  Moran.  "The  schooner  is  known,  of  course,  in 
'Frisco.  She  went  out  with  Kitchell  and  a  crew  of  coolies, 
and  she  comes  back  with  you  and  I  aboard,  and  if  we 
tell  the  truth  about  it,  it  will  sound  like  a  lie,  and  we  will 
have  no  end  of  trouble.  Then  again,  can  just  you  and  I 
work  the  Bertha  into  port?  In  these  kind  of  airs  it's 
plain  work,  but  suppose  we  have  dirty  weather?  I'm 
not  so  sure." 

"I  gib  you  ten  dollah  fo'  ten  liver  pill,"  said  Charlie. 

"Will  you  give  us  a  thousand  dollars  to  set  you  down 
in  San  Francisco?" 


A   RUN   FOR  LAND  281 

Charlie  rose.  "I  go  back.  I  tell  urn  China  boy  what 
you  say  'bout  liver  pill.  Bime-by  I  come  back." 

"That  means  he'll  take  our  offer  back  to  his  friends,''' 
said  Wilbur,  in  a  low  voice.  "You  best  hurry,  chop- 
chop,"  he  called  after  Charlie;  "we  go  home  pretty  soon  !" 

"He  knows  very  well  we  can't  get  away  before  high 
tide  to-morrow,"  said  Moran.  "  He'll  take  his  time." 

Later  on  in  the  afternoon  Moran  and  Wilbur  saw  a 
small  boat  put  off  from  the  junk  and  make  a  landing  by 
the  creek.  The  beachcombers  were  taking  on  water. 
The  boat  made  three  trips  before  evening,  but  the  beach 
combers  made  no  show  of  molesting  the  undefended 
schooner,  or  in  any  way  interfering  with  Charlie's  camp 
on  the  other  side  of  the  bay. 

"No!"  exclaimed  Moran  between  her  teeth,  as  she 
and  Wilbur  were  cooking  supper;  "no,  they  don't  need 
to;  they've  got  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars  of  loot  on  board — our  loot,  too !  Good  God ! 
It  goes  against  the  grain !" 

The  moon  rose  considerably  earlier  that  night,  and 
by  twelve  o'clock  the  bay  was  flooded  with  its  electrical 
whiteness.  Wilbur  and  Moran  could  plainly  make  out 
the  junk  tied  up  to  the  kelp  off-shore.  But  toward, 
one  o'clock  Wilbur  was  awakened  by  Moran  shaking 
his  arm. 

"There's  something  wrong  out  there,"  she  whispered; 
"something  wrong  with  the  junk.  Hear  'em  squealing? 
Look!  look!  look!"  she  cried  of  a  sudden;  "it's  their 
turn  now!" 

Wilbur  could  see  the  crank  junk,  with  its  staring  red 
eyes,  high  stern  and  prow,  as  distinctly  as  though  at 
noonday.  As  he  watched,  it  seemed  as  if  a  great  wave 
caught  her  suddenly  under  foot.  She  heaved  up  bodily 
out  of  the  water,  dropped  again  with  a  splash,  rose  again, 
and  again  fell  back  into  her  own  ripples,  that,  widening 


282          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

from  her  sides,  broke  crisply  on  the  sand  at  Wilbur's 
feet. 

Then  the  commotion  ceased  abruptly.  The  bay  was 
quiet  again.  An  hour  passed,  then  two.  The  moon 
began  to  set.  Moran  and  Wilbur,  wearied  of  watching, 
had  turned  in  again,  when  they  were  startled  to  wakeful- 
ness  by  the  creak  of  oarlocks  and  the  sound  of  a  boat 
grounding  in  the  sand. 

The  coolies — the  deserters  from  the  Bertha  Millner 
— were  there.  Charlie  came  forward. 

"Ge'  lup!  Ge'  hip!"  he  said.  "Junk  all  smash! 
Kai-gingh  come  ashore.  I  tink  him  want  catch  um 
schooner." 


IX 

THE  CAPTURE  OF  HOANG 

"WHAT  smashed  the  junk?  What  wrecked  her?" 
demanded  Moran. 

The  deserting  Chinamen  huddled  around  Charlie, 
drawing  close,  as  if  finding  comfort  in  the  feel  of  one 
another's  elbows. 

"No  can  tell,"  answered  Charlie.  "Him  shake,  then 
lif  up  all  the  same  as  we.  Bime-by  too  much  lif 

up;    him   smash   all   to  .      Four-piecee    Chinamen 

dlown." 

"Drown!  Did  any  of  them  drown?"  exclaimed 
Moran. 

"Four-piecee  dlown,"  reiterated  Charlie  calmly. 
"One,  thlee,  five,  nine,  come  asho'.  Him  other  no 
come." 

"Where  are  the  ones  that  came  ashore  ?"  asked  Wilbur. 

Charlie  waved  a  hand  back  into  the  night.  "Him 
make  um  camp  topside  ole  house." 

"That  old  whaling-camp,"  prompted  Moran.  Then 
to  Wilbur:  "You  remember — about  a  hundred  yards 
north  the  creek  ?" 

Wilbur,  Moran  and  Charlie  had  drawn  off  a  little 
from  the  Bertha  Millner's  crew.  The  latter  squatted  in 
a  line  along  the  shore — silent,  reserved,  looking  vaguely 
seaward  through  the  night.  Moran  spoke  again,  her 
scowl  thickening: 

"What  makes  you  think  the  beachcombers  want  our 
schooner?" 

283 


284          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

"Him  catch  um  schooner  sure!  Him  want  um  boat 
to  go  home.  No  can  get.  " 

"Let's  put  off  to-night — right  away,"  said  Wibur. 

"Low  tide,"  answered  Moran;  "and  besides — Charlie, 
did  you  see  them  close  ?  Were  you  near  them  ? " 

"No  go  muchee  close." 

"Did  they  have  something  with  them,  reeved  up  in  a 
hammock — something  that  smelled  sweet?" 

"Like  a  joss-stick,  for  instance?" 

"No  savvy;  no  can  tell.  Him  try  catch  um  schooner 
sure.  Him  velly  bad  China  boy.  See  Yup  China  boy 
velly  bad.  I  b'long  Sam  Yup.  Savvy?" 

"Ah!  the  tongs?" 

"Yass.  I  Sam  Yup.  Him,"  and  he  pointed  to  the 
Bertha's  crew,  "Sam  Yup.  All  we  Sam  Yup ;  nisi  him, " 
and  he  waved  a  hand  toward  the  beachcombers'  camp ; 
"him  See  Yup.  Savvy?" 

"It's  a  tong  row,"  said  Wilbur.  "They're  blood 
enemies,  the  See  Yups  and  Sam  Yups." 

Moran  fell  thoughtful,  digging  her  boot -heel  into  the 
sand,  her  thumbs  hooked  into  her  belt,  her  forehead 
gathered  into  a  heavy  frown.  There  was  silence. 

"One  thing,"  she  said  at  last;  "we  can't  give  up  the 
schooner.  They  would  take  our  stores  as  well,  and  then 
where  are  we  ?  Marooned,  by  Jove  !  How  far  do  you 
suppose  we  are  from  the  nearest  town?  Three  hundred 
miles  wouldn't  be  a  bad  guess,  and  they've  got  the  loot — 
our  ambergris — I'll  swear  to  that.  They  didn't  leave 
that  aboard  when  the  junk  sank. 

"Look  here,  Charlie,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  China 
man.  "If  the  beachcombers  take  the  schooner — the 
Bertha  Millner — from  us,  we'll  be  left  to  starve  on  this 
beach." 

"I  tink  um  yaas. " 

uHow  are  we  going  to  get  home?     Are  you  going  to 


THE  CAPTURE  OF  HOANG  285 

let  them  do  it  ?  Are  you  going  to  let  them  have  our 
schooner  ? ' ' 

"  I  tink  no  can  have.  " 

"Look  here,"  she  went  on,  with  sudden  energy. 
"There  are  only  nine  of  them  now,  to  our  eight. 
We're  about  even.  We  can  fight  those  swine.  I  know 
we  can.  If  we  jumped  their  camp  and  rushed  them 
hard,  believe  me,  we  could  run  them  into  the  sea.  Mate, ' ' 
she  cried,  suddenly  facing  Wilbur,  "are  you  game? 
Have  you  got  blood  in  you?  Those  beachcombers  are 
going  to  attack  us  to-morrow,  before  high  tide — that's 
flat.  There's  going  to  be  a  fight  anyway.  We  can't, 
let  them  have  the  schooner.  It's  starvation  for  us  if 
we  do. 

"They  mean  to  make  a  dash  for  the  Bertha,  and  we've 
got  to  fight  them  off.  If  there's  any  attacking  to  be 
done,  I  propose  to  do  it !  I  propose  we  jump  their  camp 
before  it  gets  light — now — to-night — right  away — run 
in  on  them  there,  take  them  by  surprise,  do  for  one  or 
two  of  them  if  we  have  to,  and  get  that  ambergris. 
Then  cut  back  to  the  schooner,  up  our  sails,  and  wait 
for  the  tide  to  float  us  off.  We  can  do  it — I  know  we 
can.  Mate,  will  you  back  me  up  ? " 

"Back  you  up?     You  bet  I'll  back  you  up,  Moran. 

But "     Wilbur  hesitated.     "  We  could  fight  them  so 

much  more  to  advantage  from  the  deck  of  the  schooner. 
Why  not  wait  for  them  aboard?  We  could  have  our 
sails  up,  anyhow,  and  we  could  keep  the  beachcombers 
off  till  the  tide  rose  high  enough  to  drive  them  back. 
Why  not  do  that?" 

"I  tink  bes'  wait  topside  boat, "  assented  Charlie. 

"Yes;  why  not,  Moran?" 

"Because,"  shouted  the  girl,  "they've  got  our  loot. 
I  don't  propose  to  be  plundered  of  $150,000  if  I  can 
help  it." 


286          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

"Wassa  dat?"  demanded  Charlie.  "Hunder  fiftee 
tlousand  you  hab  got?" 

"I  did  have  it — we  had  it,  the  mate  and  I.  We 
triced  a  sperm  whale  for  the  beachcombers,  and  when 
they  thought  they  had  everything  out  of  him  we  found 
a  lump  of  ambergris  in  him  that  will  weigh  close  to  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  Now  look  here,  Charlie.  The 
beachcombers  have  got  the  stuff.  It's  mine — I'm  going 
to  have  it  back.  Here's  the  lay.  Your  men  can  fight — 
you  can  fight  yourself.  We'll  make  it  a  business  propo 
sition.  Help  me  to  get  that  ambergris,  and  if  we  get 
it  I'll  give  each  one  of  the  men  $1,000,  and  I'll  give  you 
$1,500.  You  can  take  that  up  and  be  independent  rich 
the  rest  of  your  life.  You  can  chuck  it  and  rot  on  this 
beach,  for  it's  fight  or  lose  the  schooner;  you  know  that 
as  well  as  I  do.  If  you've  got  to  fight  anyhow,  why 
not  fight  where  it's  going  to  pay  the  most." 

Charlie  hesitated,  pursing  his  lips. 

"How  about  this,  Moran?"  Wilbur  broke  forth  now, 
unheard  by  Charlie.  "  I've  just  been  thinking;  have  we 
got  a  right  to  this  ambergris,  after  all?  The  beach 
combers  found  the  whale.  It  was  theirs.  How  have 
we  the  right  to  take  the  ambergris  away  from  them  any 
more  than  the  sperm  and  the  oil  and  the  bone?  It's 
theirs,  if  you  come  to  that.  I  don't  know  as  we've  the 
right  to  it." 

"Darn  you!"  shouted  Moran  in  a  blaze  of  fury, 
"right  to  it,  right  to  it !  If  I  haven't,  who  has?  Who 
found  it  ?  Those  dirty  monkeys  might  have  stood  some 
show  to  a  claim  if  they'd  held  to  the  one-third  bargain, 
and  offered  to  divvy  with  us  when  they  got  me  where 
I  couldn't  help  myself.  I  don't  say  I'd  give  in  now  if 
they  had — give  in  to  let  'em  walk  off  with  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars  that  I've  got  as  good  a  claim  to  as  they 
have  !  But  they've  saved  me  the  trouble  of  arguing  the 


THE   CAPTURE  OF   HOANG  287 

question.  They've  taken  it  all,  all !  and  there's  no 
bargain  in  the  game  at  all  now.  Now  the  stuff  belongs 
to  the  strongest  of  us,  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  They  thought 
they  were  the  strongest  and  now  they're  going  to  find 
out.  We're  dumped  down  here  on  this  Godforsaken 
sand,  and  there's  no  law  and  no  policeman.  The 
strongest  of  us  are  going  to  live  and  the  weakest  are 
going  to  die.  I'm  going  to  live  and  I'm  going  to  have 
my  loot,  too,  and  I'm  not  going  to  split  fine  hairs  with 
these  robbers  at  this  time  of  day.  I'm  going  to  have 
it  all,  and  that's  the  law  you're  under  in  this  case,  my 
righteous  friend ! " 

She  turned  her  back  upon  him,  spinning  around  upon 
her  heel,  and  Wilbur  felt  ashamed  of  himself  and  proud 
of  her. 

"I  go  talkee-talk  to  China  boy,"  said  Charlie,  coming 
up. 

For  about  five  minutes  the  Chinamen  conferred  together 
squatting  in  a  circle  on  the  beach.  Moran  paced  up  and 
down  by  the  stranded  dory.  Wilbur  leaned  against  the 
bleached  whale-skull,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Once 
he  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  nearly  one  o'clock. 

"All  light,"  said  Charlie,  coming  out  from  the  group 
at  last;  "him  fight  plenty." 

"Now,"  exclaimed  Moran,  "we've  no  time  to  waste. 
What  arms  have  we  got?" 

"We've  the  cutting-in  spades,"  said  Wilbur;  "there's 
five  of  them.  They're  nearly  ten  feet  long  and  the 
blades  are  as  sharp  as  razors;  you  couldn't  want  better 
pikes. " 

"That's  an  idea,"  returned  Moran,  evidently  willing 
to  forget  her  outburst  of  a  moment  before,  perhaps 
already  sorry  for  it.  The  party  took  stock  of  their 
weapons,  and  five  huge  cutting-in  spades,  a  heavy  knife 
from  the  galley,  and  a  revolver  of  doubtful  effectiveness 


288          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

were  divided  among  them.  The  crew  took  the  spades, 
Charlie  the  knife,  and  Wilbur  the  revolver.  Moran  had 
her  own  knife,  a  haftless  dirk,  such  as  is  affected  by 
all  Norwegians,  whether  landsmen  or  sailors.  They 
were  examining  this  armament,  and  Moran  was  suggest 
ing  a  plan  of  attack,  when  Hoang,  the  leader  of  the  beach 
combers,  and  one  other  Chinaman,  appeared  some  little 
distance  below  them  on  the  beach.  The  moon  was  low 
and  there  was  no  great  light,  but  the  two  beachcombers 
caught  the  flash  of  the  points  of  the  spades.  They  halted 
and  glanced  narrowly  and  suspiciously  at  the  group. 

"Beasts!"  muttered  Moran.  "They  are  up  to  the 
game — there's  no  surprising  them  now.  Talk  to  him, 
Charlie;  see  what  he  wants." 

Moran,  Wilbur  and  Charlie  came  part  of  the  way 
toward  Hoang  and  his  fellow,  and  paused  some  fifteen 
feet  distant,  and  a  long  colloquy  ensued.  It  soon 
become  evident,  however,  that  in  reality  Hoang  wanted 
nothing  of  them,  though  with  great  earnestness  he 
asserted  his  willingness  to  charter  the  Bertha  Millner 
back  to  San  Francisco. 

"That's  not  his  game  at  all, "  said  Moran  to  Wilbur,  in 
a  low  tone,  her  eyes  never  leaving  those  of  the  beach 
comber.  "He's  pretty  sure  he  could  seize  the  Bertha 
and  never  pay  us  a  stiver.  They've  come  down  to  spy 
on  us,  and  they're  doing  it,  too.  There's  no  good  trying 
to  rush  their  camp  now.  They'll  go  back  and  tell  the 
crew  that  we  know  their  lay.  " 

It  was  still  very  dark.  Near  the  hulk  of  the  beached 
Bertha  Millner  were  grouped  her  crew,  each  armed  with  a 
long  and  lancelike  cutting-in  spade,  watching  and  listen 
ing  to  the  conference  of  the  chiefs.  The  moon,  almost 
down,  had  flushed  blood-red,  violently  streaking  the 
gray,  smooth  surface  of  the  bay  with  her  reflection.  The 
tide  was  far  out,  rippling  quietly  along  the  reaches  of 


THE  CAPTURE   OF   HOANG  289 

wet  sand.  In  the  pauses  of  the  conference  the  vast, 
muffling  silence  shut  down  with  the  abruptness  of  a 
valve  suddenly  closed. 

How  it  happened,  just  who  made  the  first  move,  in 
precisely  what  manner  the  action  had  been  planned  or 
what  led  up  to  it,  Wilbur  could  not  afterward  satis 
factorily  explain.  There  was  a  rush  forward — he 
remembered  that  much — a  dull  thudding  of  feet  over 
the  resounding  beach  surface,  a  moment's  writhing 
struggle  with  a  half-naked  brown  figure  that  used 
knife  and  nail  and  tooth,  and  then  the  muffling 
silence  again,  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  their 
own  panting.  In  that  whirl  of  sv/ift  action  Wilbur  could 
reconstruct  but  two  brief  pictures:  the  Chinaman, 
Hoang's  companion,  flying  like  one  possessed  along  the 
shore;  Hoang  himself  flung  headlong  into  the  arms  of 
the  Bertha's  coolies,  and  Moran,  her  eyes  blazing,  her 
thick  braids  flying,  brandishing  her  fist  as  she  shouted 
at  the  top  -of  her  deep  voice:  "We've  got  you,  anyhow  ! " 

They  had  taken  Hoang  prisoner,  whether  by  treachery 
or  not  Wilbur  did  not  exactly  know;  and,  even  if  unfair 
means  had  been  used,  he  could  not  repress  a  feeling  of 
delight  and  satisfaction,  as  he  told  himself  that  in  the 
very  beginning  of  the  fight  that  was  to  follow  he  and  his 
mates  had  gained  the  first  advantage. 

As  the  action  of  that  night's  events  became  more  and 
more  accelerated,  Wilbur  could  not  but  notice  the  change 
in  Moran.  It  was  very  evident  that  the  old  Norse 
fighting-blood  of  her  was  all  astir— brutal,  merciless, 
savage  beyond  all  control.  A  sort  of  obsession  seized 
upon  her  at  the  near  approach  of  battle,  a  frenzy  of 
action  that  was  checked  by  nothing — that  was  insensible 
to  all  restraint.  At  times  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
make  her  hear  him,  or  when  she  heard  to  understand 
what  he  was  saying.  Her  vision  contracted.  It  was 


290          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

evident  that  she  could  not  see  distinctly.  Wilbur  could 
no  longer  conceive  of  her  as  a  woman  of  the  days  of 
civilization.  She  was  lapsing  back  to  the  eighth  century 
again — to  the  Vikings,  the  sea- wolves,  the  berserkers. 

"Now  you're  going  to  talk,"  she  cried  to  Hoang,  as 
the  bound  Chinaman  sat  upon  the  beach,  leaning  his 
back  against  the  great  skull.  "Charlie,  ask  him  if  they 
saved  the  ambergris  when  the  junk  went  down — if 
they've  got  it  now?"  Charlie  put  the  question  in 
Chinese,  but  the  beachcomber  only  twinkled  his  vicious 
eyes  upon  them  and  held  his  peace.  With  the  full 
sweep  of  her  arm,  her  fist  clenched  till  the  knuckles 
whitened,  Moran  struck  him  in  the  face. 

"Now  will  you  talk?"  she  cried.  Hoang  wiped  the 
blood  from  his  face  upon  his  shoulder  and  set  his  jaws. 
He  did  not  answer. 

"You  will  talk  before  I'm  done  with  you,  my  friend; 
don't  get  any  wrong  notions  in  your  head  about  that," 
Moran  continued,  her  teeth  clenched.  "Charlie,"  she 
added,  "is  there  a  file  aboard  the  schooner?" 

"I  tink  um  yass;  boss  hab  got  file. " 

"In  the  tool-chest,  isn't  it?"  Charlie  nodded,  and 
Moran  ordered  it  to  be  fetched. 

"If  we're  to  fight  that  crowd,"  she  said,  speaking  to 
herself  and  in  a  rapid  voice,  thick  from  excitement  and 
passion,  "we've  got  to  know  where  they've  hid  the  loot, 
and  what  weapons  they've  got.  If  they  have  a  rifle  or 
a  shotgun  with  them  it's  going  to  make  a  big  difference 
for  us.  The  other  fellow  escaped  and  has  gone  back  to 
warn  the  rest.  It's  fight  now,  and  no  mistake.  " 

The  Chinaman  who  had  been  sent  aboard  the  schooner 
returned,  carrying  a  long,  rather  coarse-grained  file. 
Moran  took  it  from  him. 

"Now,"  she  said,  standing  in  front  of  Hoang,  "I'll 
give  you  one  more  chance.  Answer  me.  Did  you  bring 


THE  CAPTURE  OF   HOANG  291 

off  the  ambergris,  you  beast,  when  your  junk  sank  ? 
Where  is  it  now?  How  many  men  have  you?  What 
arms  have  you  got  ?  Have  your  men  got  a  rifle  !  Charlie, 
put  that  all  to  him  in  your  lingo,  so  as  to  make  sure  that 
he  understands.  Tell  him  if  he  don't  talk  I'm  going  to 
make  him  very  sick." 

Charlie  put  the  question  in  Chinese,  pausing  after  each 
one.  Hoang  held  his  peace. 

"I  gave  you  fair  warning,"  shouted  Moran  angrily, 
pointing  at  him  with  the  file.  "Will  you  answer?" 

"Him  no  tell  nuttin, "  observed  Charlie. 

"Fetch  a  cord  here,"  commanded  Moran.  The  cord 
was  brought,  and  despite  Hoang's  struggles  and  writh- 
ings  the  file  was  thrust  end-ways  into  his  mouth  and  his 
jaws  bound  tightly  together  upon  it  by  means  of  the 
cord  passed  over  his  head  and  under  his  chin.  Some 
four  inches  of  the  file  protruded  from  his  lips.  Moran 
took  this  end  and  drew  it  out  between  the  beachcomber's 
teeth,  then  pushed  it  back  slowly. 

The  hideous  rasp  of  the  operation  turned  Wilbur's 
blood  cold  within  him.  He  looked  away — out  to  sea, 
down  the  beach — anywhere,  so  that  he  might  not  see 
what  was  going  forward.  But  the  persistent  grind  and 
scrape  still  assaulted  his  ears.  He  turned  about  sharply. 

"I — I — I'll  go  down  the  beach  here  a  ways,"  he  said 
quickly.  "I  can't  stand — I'll  keep  watch  to  see  if  the 
beachcombers  come  up." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  heard  Charlie  hailing  him. 

"Chin-chin  heap  plenty  now,"  said  he,  with  a  grin,  as 
Wilbur  came  up. 

Hoang  sat  on  the  sand  in  the  midst  of  the  circle.  The 
file  and  coil  of  rope  lay  on  the  ground  near  by.  The 
beachcomber  was  talking  in  a  high-keyed  sing-song, 
but  with  a  lisp.  He  told  them  party  in  pigeon  English 
and  partly  in  Cantonese,  which  Charlie  translated,  that 


292          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

their  men  were  eight  in  number,  and  that  they  had 
intended  to  seize  the  schooner  that  night,  but  that 
probably  his  own  capture  had  delayed  their  plans.  They 
had  no  rifle.  A  shotgun  had  been  on  board,  but  had 
gone  down  with  the  sinking  of  the  junk.  The  ambergris 
had  been  cut  into  two  lumps,  and  would  be  found  in  a 
couple  of  flour-sacks  in  the  stern  of  the  boat  in  which  he 
and  his  men  had  come  ashore.  They  were  all  armed  with 
their  little  hatchets.  He  thought  two  of  the  men 
carried  knives  as  well.  There  was  neither  pistol  nor 
revolver  among  them. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Wilbur,  ''that  we've  got  the 
long  end. " 

"We  catch  um  boss,  too!"  said  Charlie,  pointing  to 
Hoang. 

"And  we  are  better  armed, "  assented  Moran.  "We've 
got  the  cutting-in  spades.  " 

"And  the  revolver,  if  it  will  shoot  any  farther  than  it 
will  kick. " 

"They'll  give  us  all  the  fight  we  want,"  declared 
Moran. 

"Oh,  him  Kai-gingh,  him  fight  all  same  devil." 

"Give  the  men  brandy,  Charlie,"  commanded  Moran. 
"We'll  rush  that  camp  right  away. " 

The  demijohn  of  spirits  was  brought  down  from  the 
Bertha  and  passed  around,  Wilbur  and  Moran  drinking 
from  the  tin  cup,  the  coolies  from  the  bottle.  Hoang 
was  fettered  and  locked  in  the  Bertha's  cabin. 

"Now,  then,  are  we  ready?"  cried  Moran. 

"I  tink  all  light,"  answered  Charlie. 

The  party  set  off  down  the  beach.  The  moon  had 
long  since  gone  down,  and  the  dawn  was  whitening  over 
the  eastern  horizon.  Landward,  ragged  blankets  of 
morning  mist  lay  close  in  the  hollows  here  and  there.  It 
was  profoundly  still.  The  stars  were  still  out.  The 


THE   CAPTURE   OF   HOANG  293 

surface  of  Magdalena  Bay  was  smooth  as  a  sheet  of  gray 
silk. 

Twenty  minutes  passed,  half  an  hour,  an  hour.  The 
party  tramped  steadily  forward,  Moran,  Wilbur  and 
Charlie  leading,  the  coolies  close  behind  carrying  the 
cutting-in  spades  over  their  shoulders.  Slowly  and  in 
silence  they  made  the  half  circuit  of  the  bay.  The 
Bertha  Millner  was  far  behind  them  by  now,  a  vague 
gray  mass  in  the  early  morning  light. 

"Did  you  ever  fight  before?"  Moran  suddenly  de 
manded  of  Charlie. 

"One  time  I  fight  plenty  much  in  San  Francisco  in 
Washington  Stleet.  Fight  urn  See  Yups." 

Another  half  hour  passed.  At  times  when  they 
halted  they  began  to  hear  the  faint  murmur  of  the 
creek,  just  beyond  which  was  the  broken  and  crumbling 
shanty,  relic  of  an  old  Portuguese  whaling-camp,  where 
the  beachcombers  were  camped.  At  Charlie's  suggestion 
the  party  made  a  circuit,  describing  a  half  moon,  to 
landward,  so  as  to  come  out  upon  the  enemy  sheltered 
by  the  sand-dunes.  Twenty  minutes  later  they  crossed 
the  creek  about  four  hundred  yards  from  the  shore. 
Here  they  spread  out  into  a  long  line,  and,  keeping  an 
interval  of  about  fifteen  feet  between  each  of  them, 
moved  cautiously  forward.  The  unevenness  of  the 
sand-breaks  hid  the  shore  from  view,  but  Moran,  Wilbur 
and  Charlie  knew  that  by  keeping  the  creek  upon  their 
left  they  would  come  out  directly  upon  the  house. 

A  few  moments  later  Charlie  held  up  his  hand,  and 
the  men  halted.  The  noise  of  the  creek  chattering 
into  the  tidewater  of  the  bay  was  plainly  audible 
just  beyond;  a  ridge  of  sand,  covered  thinly  with 
sage-brush,  and  a  faint  column  of  smoke  rose  into 
the  air  over  the  ridge  itself.  They  were  close  in.  The 
coolies  were  halted,  and,  dropping  upon  their  hands 


294          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

and  knees,  the  three  leaders  crawled  to  the  top  of  the 
break.  Sheltered  by  a  couple  of  sage-bushes  and  lying 
flat  to  the  ground,  Wilbur  looked  over  and  down  upon 
the  beach.  The  first  object  he  made  out  was  a  crazy, 
roofless  house,  built  of  driftwood,  the  chinks  plastered 
with  'dobe  mud,  the  door  fallen  in. 

Beyond,  on  the  beach,  was  a  flat-bottomed  dingey, 
unpainted  and  foul  with  dirt.  But  all  around  the  house 
the  sand  had  been  scooped  and  piled  to  form  a  low 
barricade,  and  behind  this  barricade  Wilbur  saw  the 
beachcombers.  There  were  eight  of  them.  They  were 
alert  and  ready,  their  hatchets  in  their  hands.  The  gaze 
of  each  of  them  was  fixed  directly  upon  the  sand-break 
which  sheltered  the  Bertha  Millner's  officers  and  crew. 
They  seemed  to  Wilbur  to  look  him  straight  in  the  eye. 
They  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  The  silence  and  abso 
lute  lack  of  motion  on  the  part  of  these  small,  half- 
naked  Chinamen,  with  their  ape-like  muzzles  and 
twinkling  eyes,  was  ominous. 

There  could  be  no  longer  any  doubt  that  the  beach 
combers  had  known  of  their  enemies'  movements  and 
were  perfectly  aware  of  their  presence  behind  the  sand- 
break.  Moran  rose  to  her  feet,  and  Wilbur  and  Charlie 
followed  her  example. 

' 'There's  no  use  hiding,"  she  said;  "they  know  we're 
here." 

Charlie  called  up  the  crew.  The  two  parties  were 
ranged  face  to  face.  Over  the  eastern  rim  of  the  Pacific 
the  blue  whiteness  of  the  early  dawn  was  turning  to  a 
dull,  roseate  gold  at  the  core  of  the  sunrise.  The  head 
lands  of  Magdalena  Bay  stood  black  against  the  pale 
glow;  overhead,  the  greater  stars  still  shone.  The 
monotonous,  faint  ripple  of  the  creek  was  the  only 
sound.  It  was  about  3 130  o'clock. 


X 

A  BATTLE 

WILBUR  had  imagined  that  the  fight  would  be  hardly 
more  than  a  wild  rush  down  the  slope  of  the  beach,  a 
dash  over  the  beachcombers'  breastworks  of  sand,  and 
a  brief  hand-to-hand  scrimmage  around  the  old  cabin. 
In  all  accounts  he  had  ever  read  of  such  affairs,  and 
in  all  ideas  he  had  entertained  on  the  subject,  this 
had  always  been  the  case.  The  two  bodies  had  shocked 
together  like  a  college  rush,  there  had  been  five  minutes' 
play  of  knife  and  club  and  gun,  a  confused  whirl  of 
dust  and  smoke,  and  all  was  over  before  one  had  time 
either  to  think  or  be  afraid.  But  nothing  of  the  kind 
happened  that  morning. 

The  Bertha  Millner's  crew,  in  a  long  line,  Moran  at 
one  end,  Wilbur  at  the  other,  and  Charlie  in  the  centre, 
came  on  toward  the  beachcombers,  step  by  step.  There 
was  little  outcry.  Each  contestant  singled  out  his 
enemy,  and  made  slowly  for  him  with  eyes  fixed  and 
weapon  ready,  regardless  of  the  movements  of  his  mates. 

"See  any  rifles  among  them,  Charlie  ?"  shouted  Moran, 
suddenly  breaking  the  silence. 

"No,  I  tink  no  hab  got,"  answered  Charlie. 

Wilbur  took  another  step  forward  and  cocked  his 
revolver.  One  of  the  beachcombers  shouted  out  some 
thing  in  angry  vernacular,  and  Charlie  instantly 
responded.  All  this  time  the  line  had  been  slowly 
advancing  upon  the  enemy,  and  Wilbur  began  to  wonder 
how  long  that  heartbreaking  suspense  was  to  continue. 
This  was  not  at  all  what  he  had  imagined.  Already 

295 


296          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

he  was  within  twenty  feet  of  his  man,  could  see  the  evil 
glint  of  his  slant,  small  eye,  and  the  shine  of  his 
yellow  body,  naked  to  the  belt.  Still  foot  by  foot  the 
forward  movement  continued.  The  Chinese  on  either 
side  had  begun  exchanging  insults;  the  still,  hot  air  of 
the  tropic  dawn  was  vibrant  with  the  Cantonese 
monosyllables  tossed  back  and  forth  like  tennis  balls 
over  the  low  sand  rampart.  The  thing  was  degen 
erating  into  a  farce — the  Bertha's  Chinamen  would  not 
fight. 

Back  there  under  the  shelter  of  the  schooner,  it  was 
all  very  well  to  talk,  and  they  had  been  very  brave  when 
they  had  all  flung  themselves  upon  Hoang.  Here, 
face  to  face  with  the  enemy,  the  sun  striking  off  helio 
graph  flashes  from  their  knives  and  spades,  it  was  a 
vastly  different  matter.  The  thing,  to  Wilbur's  mind, 
should  have  been  done  suddenly  if  it  was  to  be  done  at 
all.  The  best  course  now  was  to  return  to  camp  and 
try  some  other  plan.  Charlie  shouted  a  direction  to  him 
in  pigeon  English  that  he  did  not  understand,  but  he 
answered  all  right,  and  moved  forward  another  step  so 
as  to  be  in  line  with  the  coolie  at  his  left. 

The  liquor  he  had  drunk  before  starting  began 
suddenly  to  affect  him,  yet  he  knew  that  his  head  was 
yet  clear.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  run  away 
before  them  all,  but  he  would  have  given  much  to  have 
discovered  a  good  reason  for  postponing  the  fight — if 
fight  there  was  to  be. 

He  remembered  the  cocked  revolver  in  his  hand,  and, 
suddenly  raising  it,  fired  point-blank  at  his  man,  not 
fifteen  feet  away.  The  hammer  snapped  on  the  nipple, 
but  the  cartridge  did  not  explode.  Wilbur  turned  to  the 
Chinaman  next  him  in  line,  exclaiming  excitedly: 

"Here,  say,  have  you  got  a  knife — something  I  can 
fight  with?  This  gun's  no  good." 


A   BATTLE  297 

There  was  a  shout  from  Moran : 

"Look  out,  here  they  come!" 

Two  of  the  beachcombers  suddenly  sprang  over  the 
sand  breastworks  and  ran  toward  Charlie,  their  knives 
held  low  in  front  of  them,  ready  to  rip. 

"Shoot !  shoot !  shoot !"  shouted  Moran  rapidly. 

Wilbur's  revolver  was  a  self-cocker.  He  raised  it 
again,  drawing  hard  on  the  trigger  as  he  did  so.  It 
roared  and  leaped  in  his  hand,  and  a  whiff  of  burnt 
powder  came  to  his  nostrils.  Then  Wilbur  was  aston 
ished  to  hear  himself  shout  at  the  top  of  his  voice: 

"Come  on,  now;  get  into  them — get  into  them  now, 
everybody !" 

The  Bertha's  Chinamen  were  all  running  forward, 
three  of  them  well  in  advance  of  the  others.  In  the  rear 
Charlie  was  at  grapples  with  a  beachcomber  who  fought 
with  a  knife  in  each  hand,  and  Wilbur  had  a  sudden 
glimpse  of  another  sitting  on  the  sand  with  his  hand  to 
his  mouth,  the  blood  spurting  between  his  fingers. 

Wilbur  suddenly  realized  that  he  held  a  knife  and  that 
he  was  directly  abreast  the  sand  rampart.  How  he  got 
the  knife  he  could  not  tell,  though  he  afterward  distinctly 
remembered  throwing  away  his  revolver,  loaded  as  it 
was.  He  had  leaped  the  breastworks,  he  knew  that,  and 
between  him  and  the  vast  bright  blur  of  the  ocean  he 
saw  one  of  the  beachcombers  backing  away  and  watch 
ing  him  intently,  his  hatchet  in  his  hand.  Wilbur 
had  only  time  to  think  that  he  himself  would  no  doubt 
be  killed  within  the  next  few  moments,  when  this  latter 
halted  abruptly,  took  a  step  forward,  and,  instead  of 
striking  downward,  as  Wilbur  had  anticipated,  dropped 
upon  his  knees  and  struck  with  all  his  might  at  the 
calf  of  Wilbur's  leg.  It  was  only  the  thickness  of  his 
boots  that  saved  Wilbur  from  being  hamstrung  where 
he  stood.  As  it  was,  he  felt  the  blade  bite  almost  to 


298          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

the  bone,  and  heard  the  blood  squelch  in  the  sole  of  his 
boot  as  he  staggered  for  the  moment,  almost  tripping 
over  the  man  in  front  of  him. 

The  Chinaman  sprang  to  his  feet  again,  but  Wilbur 
was  at  him  in  an  instant,  feeling  instinctively  that  his 
chance  was  to  close  with  his  man  and  so  bring  his  own 
superior  weight  and  strength  to  bear.  Again  and  again 
he  tried  to  run  in  and  grip  the  slim  yellow  body,  but 
the  other  dodged  and  backed  away,  as  hard  to  hold 
as  any  fish.  All  around  and  back  of  him  now  Wilbur 
heard  the  hideous  sound  of  stamping  and  struggling, 
and  the  noise  of  hoarse,  quick  shouts  and  the  rebound  of 
bodies  falling  and  rolling  upon  the  hard,  smooth  beach. 
The  thing  had  not  been  a  farce,  after  all.  This  was 
fighting  at  last,  and  there  within  arm's  length  were 
men  grappling  and  gripping  and  hitting  one  another, 
each  honestly  striving  to  kill  his  fellow — Chinamen  all, 
fighting  in  barbarous  Oriental  fashion  with  nails  and 
teeth  when  the  knife  or  hatchet  failed.  What  did  he, 
clubman  and  collegeman,  in  that  hideous  trouble  that 
wrought  itself  out  there  on  that  heat-stricken  tropic 
beach  under  that  morning's  sun  ? 

Suddenly  there  was  a  flash  of  red  flame,  and  a  billow 
of  thick  yellow  smoke  filled  all  the  air.  The  cabin  was 
afire.  The  hatchet -man  with  whom  Wilbur  was  fight 
ing  had  been  backing  in  this  direction.  He  was  close 
in  when  the  fire  began  to  leap  from  the  one  window; 
now  he  could  go  no  farther.  He  turned  to  run  side 
ways  between  his  enemy  and  the  burning  cabin.  Wilbur 
thrust  his  foot  sharply  forward;  the  beachcomber 
tripped,  staggered,  and  before  he  had  reached  the 
ground  Wilbur  had  driven  home  the  knife. 

Then  suddenly,  at  the  sight  of  his  smitten  enemy  rolling 
on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  the  primitive  man,  the  half- 
brute  of  the  stone  age,  leaped  to  life  in  Wilbur's  breast 


A   BATTLE  299 

— he  felt  his  muscles  thrilling  with  a  strength  they  had 
not  known  before.  His  nerves,  stretched  tense  as 
harp-strings,  were  vibrating  to  a  new  tune.  His  blood 
spun  through  his  veins  till  his  ears  roared  with  the 
rush  of  it.  Never  had  he  conceived  of  such  savage 
exultation  as  that  which  mastered  him  at  that  instant. 
The  knowledge  that  he  could  kill  filled  him  with  a  sense 
of  power  that  was  veritably  royal.  He  felt  physically 
larger.  It  was  the  joy  of  battle,  the  horrid  exhilaration 
of  killing,  the  animal  of  the  race,  the  human  brute  sud 
denly  aroused  and  dominating  every  instinct  and  tra 
dition  of  centuries  of  civilization.  The  fight  still  was 
going  forward. 

Wilbur  could  hear  the  sounds  of  it,  though  from 
where  he  stood  all  sight  was  shut  off  by  the  smoke  of 
the  burning  house.  As  he  turned  about,  knife  in  hand, 
debating  what  next  he  should  do,  a  figure  burst  down 
upon  him,  shadowy  and  distorted  through  the  haze. 

It  was  Moran,  but  Moran  as  Wilbur  had  never  seen 
her  before.  Her  eyes  were  blazing  under  her  thick 
frown  like  fire  under  a  bush.  Her  arms  were  bared  to 
the  elbow,  her  heavy  ropes  of  hair  flying  and  coiling 
from  her  in  all  directions,  while  with  a  voice  hoarse  from 
shouting  she  sang,  or  rather  chanted,  in  her  long- 
forgotten  Norse  tongue,  fragments  of  old  sagas,  words 
and  sentences,  meaningless  even  to  herself.  The  fury  of 
battle  had  exalted  her  to  a  sort  of  frenzy.  She  was 
beside  herself  with  excitement.  Once  more  she  had 
lapsed  back  to  the  Vikings  and  sea-rovers  of  the  tenth 
century — she  was  Brunhilde  again,  a  shield-maiden, 
a  Valkyrie,  a  berserker  and  the  daughter  of  berserkers, 
and  like  them  she  fought  in  a  veritable  frenzy,  seeing 
nothing,  hearing  nothing,  every  sense  exalted,  every 
force  doubled,  insensible  to  pain,  deaf  to  all  reason. 

Her  dirk  uplifted,  she  rushed  upon  Wilbur,  never  once 


300          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

pausing  in  her  chant.  Wilbur  shouted  a  warning  to 
her  as  she  came  on,  puzzled  beyond  words,  startled  back 
to  a  consciousness  of  himself  again  by  this  insensate 
attack. 

"Moran  !  Moran !"  he  called.  "What  is  it — you're 
wrong !  It's  I.  It's  Wilbur — your  mate,  can't  you 
see?" 

Moran  could  not  see — blind  to  friend  or  foe,  as  she  was 
deaf  to  reason,  she  struck  at  him  with  all  the  strength  of 
her  arm.  But  there  was  no  skill  in  her  fighting  now. 
Wilbur  dropped  his  own  knife  and  gripped  her  right 
wrist.  She  closed  with  him  upon  the  instant,  clutching 
at  his  throat  with  her  one  free  hand;  and  as  he  felt  her 
strength — doubled  and  tripled  in  the  fury  of  her  mad 
ness — Wilbur  knew  that,  however  easily  he  had  over 
come  his  enemy  of  a  moment  before,  he  was  now  fighting 
for  his  very  life. 

At  first,  Wilbur  merely  struggled  to  keep  her  from 
him — to  prevent  her  using  her  dirk.  He  tried  not  to 
hurt  her.  But  what  with  the  spirits  he  had  drunk 
before  the  attack  itself,  what  with  the  excitement 
of  the  attack  and  the  sudden  unleashing  of  the 
brute  in  him  an  instant  before,  the  whole  affair  grew  dim 
and  hazy  in  his  mind.  He  ceased  to  see  things  in  their 
proportion.  His  new-found  strength  gloried  in  match 
ing  itself  with  another  strength  that  was  its  equal.  He 
fought  with  Moran — not  as  he  would  fight  with  either 
woman  or  man,  or  with  anything  human,  for  the  matter 
of  that.  He  fought  with  her  as  against  some  impersonal 
force  that  it  was  incumbent  upon  him  to  conquer — that 
it  was  imperative  he  should  conquer  if  he  wished  to  live. 
When  she  struck,  he  struck  blow  for  blow,  force  for 
force,  his  strength  against  hers,  glorying  in  that  strange 
contest,  though  he  never  once  forgot  that  this  last  enemy 
was  the  girl  he  loved.  It  was  not  Moran  whom  he 


A   BATTLE  301 

fought;  it  was  her  force,  her  determination,  her  will,  her 
splendid  independence,  that  he  set  himself  to  conquer. 

Already  she  had  dropped  or  flung  away  the  dirk,  and 
their  battle  had  become  an  issue  of  sheer  physical  strength 
between  them.  It  was  a  question  now  as  to  who  should 
master  the  other.  Twice  she  had  fought  Wilbur  to  his 
knees,  the  heel  of  her  hand  upon  his  face,  his  head  thrust 
back  between  his  shoulders,  and  twice  he  had  wrenched 
away,  rising  to  his  feet  again,  panting,  bleeding  even, 
but  with  his  teeth  set  and  all  his  resolution  at  the 
sticking-point.  Once  he  saw  his  chance,  and  planted 
his  knuckles  squarely  between  her  eyes  where  her  frown 
was  knotted  hard,  hoping  to  stun  her  and  end  the  fight 
at  once  and  for  all.  But  the  blow  did  not  seem  to  affect 
her  in  the  least.  By  this  time  he  saw  that  her  berserker 
rage  had  worked  itself  clear  as  fermenting  wine  clears 
itself,  and  that  she  knew  now  with  whom  she  was  fight 
ing;  and  he  seemed  now  to  understand  the  incompre 
hensible,  and  to  sympathize  with  her  joy  in  measuring 
her  strength  against  his;  and  yet  he  knew  that  the  com 
bat  was  deadly  serious,  and  that  more  than  life  was  at 
stake.  Moran  despised  a  weakling. 

For  an  instant,  as  they  fell  apart,  she  stood  off, 
breathing  hard  and  rolling  up  her  sleeve;  then,  as  she 
started  forward  again,  Wilbur  met  her  half-way,  caught 
her  round  the  neck  and  under  the  arm,  gripping  her  left 
wrist  with  his  right  hand  behind  her;  then,  exerting 
every  ounce  of  strength  he  yet  retained,  he  thrust  her 
down  and  from  him,  until  at  length,  using  his  hip  as  a 
pivot,  he  swung  her  off  her  feet,  threw  her  fairly  on  her 
back,  and  held  her  so,  one  knee  upon  her  chest,  his  hands 
closed  vise-like  on  her  wrists. 

Then  suddenly  Moran  gave  up,  relaxing  in  his  grasp 
all  in  a  second,  and,  to  his  great  surprise,  suddenly 
smiled. 


302          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

"Ho!  mate,"  she  exclaimed;  "that  was  a  tough  one; 
but  I'm  beaten — you're  stronger  than  I  thought  for. " 

Wilbur  released  her  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

" Here, "  she  continued,  "give  me  your  hand.  I'm  as 
weak  as  a  kitten."  As  Wilbur  helped  her  to  her  feet, 
she  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  where  his  knuckles  had 
left  their  mark,  and  frowned  at  him,  but  not  ill-naturedly. 

"Next  time  you  do  that,"  she  said,  "use  a  rock  or  a 
belaying-pin,  or  something  that  won't  hurt — not  your 
fist,  mate."  She  looked  at  him  admiringly.  "What  a 
two-fisted,  brawny  dray-horse  it  is !  I  told  you  I  was 
stronger  than  most  men,  didn't  I  ?  But  I'm  the  weaker 
of  us  two,  and  that's  a  fact.  You've  beaten,  mate — I 
admit  it;  you've  conquered  me,  and,"  she  continued, 
smiling  again  and  shaking  him  by  the  shoulder — "and 
mate,  do  you  know,  I  love  you  for  it. " 


XI 

A  CHANGE   IN   LEADERS 

"WELL,"  exclaimed  Wilbur  at  length,  the  excitement 
of  the  fight  returning  upon  him.  "We  have  plenty 
to  do  yet.  Come  on,  Moran." 

It  was  no  longer  Moran  who  took  the  initiative — who 
was  the  leader.  The  brief  fight  upon  the  shore  had 
changed  all  that.  It  was  Wilbur  who  was  now  the 
master,  it  was  Wilbur  who  was  aggressive.  He  had 
known  what  it  meant  to  kill.  He  was  no  longer  afraid 
of  anything,  no  longer  hesitating.  He  had  felt  a  sudden 
quadrupling  of  all  this  strength,  moral  and  physical. 

All  that  was  strong  and  virile  and  brutal  in  him 
seemed  to  harden  and  stiffen  in  the  moment  after  he 
had  seen  the  beachcomber  collapse  limply  on  the  sand 
under  that  last  strong  knife-blow ;  and  a  sense  of  triumph, 
of  boundless  self-confidence,  leaped  within  him,  so  that 
he  shouted  aloud  in  a  very  excess  of  exhilaration;  and 
snatching  up  a  heavy  cutting-in  spade,  that  had  been 
dropped  in  the  fight  near  the  burning  cabin,  tossed  it 
high  in  the  air,  catching  it  again  as  it  descended,  like 
any  exultant  savage. 

" Come  on  ! "  he  cried  to  Moran;  "where  are  the  beach 
combers  gone?  I'm  going  to  get  one  more  before  the 
show  is  over." 

The  two  passed  out  of  the  zone  of  smoke  and  reached 
the  other  side  of  the  burning  cabin  just  in  time  to  see 
the  last  of  the  struggle.  The  whole  affair  had  not  taken 
more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  In  the  end  the  beach- 

303 


3o4          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

combers  had  been  beaten.  Four  had  fled  into  the 
waste  of  sand  and  sage  that  lay  back  of  the  shore,  and 
had  not  been  pursued.  A  fifth  had  been  almost 
hamstrung  by  one  of  the  Bertha's  coolies,  and  had 
given  himself  up.  A  sixth,  squealing  and  shrieking 
like  a  tiger-cat,  had  been  made  prisoner;  and  Wilbur 
himself  had  accounted  for  the  seventh. 

As  Wilbur  and  Moran  came  around  the  cabin  they  saw 
the  Bertha  Millner's  Chinamen  in  a  group,  not  far  from 
the  water's  edge,  reassembled  after  the  fight — panting 
and  bloody,  some  of  them  bare  to  the  belt,  their  weapons 
still  in  their  hands.  Here  and  there  was  a  bandaged 
arm  or  head;  but  their  number  was  complete — or  no, 
was  it  complete  ? 

"Ought  to  be  one  more,"  said  Wilbur,  anxiously 
hastening  forward. 

As  the  two  came  up  the  coolies  parted,  and  Wilbur 
saw  one  of  them,  his  head  propped  upon  a  rolled-up 
blouse,  lying  ominously  still  on  the  trampled  sand. 

"It's  Charlie!"  exclaimed  Moran. 

"Where's  he  hurt?"  cried  Wilbur  to  the  group  of 
coolies.  "Jim — where's  Jim?  Where's  he  hurt,  Jim?" 

Jim,  the  only  member  of  the  crew  besides  Charlie 
who  could  understand  or  speak  English,  answered: 

"Kai-gingh  him  fin'  pistol — you'  pistol;  Charlie  him 
fight  plenty;  bimeby,  when  he  no  see,  one-piecee  Kai- 
gingh  he  come  up  behind,  shoot  um  Charlie  in  side — 
savvy?" 

"  Did  he  kill  him  ?     Is  he  dead  ? " 

"No,  I  tinkum  die  plenty  soon;  him  no  savvy  nuttin' 
now,  him  all-same  sleep.  Plenty  soon  bimeby  him 
sleep  for  good,  I  tink. " 

There  was  little  blood  to  be  seen  when  Wilbur  gently 
unwrapped  the  torn  sleeve  of  a  blouse  that  had  been 
used  as  a  bandage.  Just  under  the  armpit  was  the 


A  CHANGE   IN   LEADERS  305 

mark  of  a  bullet — a  small  puncture  already  closed,  half 
hidden  under  a  clot  or  two  of  blood.  The  coolie  lay 
quite  unconscious,  his  eyes  wide  open,  drawing  a  faint, 
quick  breath  at  irregular  intervals. 

"What  do  you  think,  mate?"  asked  Moran  in  a  low 
voice. 

"I  think  he's  got  it  through  the  lungs,"  answered 
Wilbur,  frowning  in  distress  and  perplexity.  "Poor 
old  Charlie!" 

Moran  went  down  on  a  knee  and  put  a  finger  on  the 
slim,  corded  wrist,  yellow  as  old  ivory. 

"Charlie,"  she  called,  "Charlie,  here,  don't  you 
know  me?  Wake  up,  old  chap!  It's  Moran.  You're 
not  hurt  so  very  bad,  are  you?" 

Charlie's  eyes  opened  and  closed  a  couple  of  times. 

"No  can  tell,''  he  answered  feebly.  "Hurt  plenty 
big;' '  then  he  began  to  cough. 

Wilbur  drew  a  sigh  of  relief.  "He's  all  right!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Yes,  I  think  he's  all  right,"  assented  Moran. 

"First  thing  to  do  now  is  to  get  him  aboard  the 
schooner,"  said  Wilbur.  "We'll  take  him  right  across 
in  the  beachcombers'  dory  here.  By  Jove!"  he 
exclaimed  on  a  sudden.  "The  ambergris — I'd  forgotten 
all  about  it."  His  heart  sank.  In  the  hideous  con 
fusion  of  that  morning's  work  all  thought  of  the  loot 
had  been  forgotten.  Had  the  battle  been  for  nothing, 
after  all  ?  The  moment  the  beachcombers  had  been 
made  aware  of  the  meditated  attack  it  would  have  been 
an  easy  matter  for  them  to  have  hidden  the  ambergris — 
destroyed  it,  even. 

In  two  strides  Wilbur  had  reached  the  beachcombers' 
dory  and  was  groping  in  the  forward  cuddy.  Then  he 
uttered  a  great  shout  of  satisfaction.  The  "stuff"  was 
there,  all  of  it,  though  the  mass  had  been  cut  into 


3o6          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

quarters,  three  parts  of  it  stowed  in  tea-flails,  the  fourth 
still  reeved  up  in  the  hammock  netting. 

"We've  got  it !"  he  cried  to  Moran,  who  had  followed 
him.  "We've  got  it,  Moran!  Over  $100,000.  We're 
rich — rich  as  boodlers,  you  and  I.  Oh,  it  was  worth 
fighting  for,  after  all,  wasn't  it?  Now  we'll  get  out  of 
here — now  we'll  cut  for  home. " 

"It's  only  Charlie  I'm  thinking  about,"  answered 
Moran,  hesitating.  "If  it  wasn't  for  that  we'd  be  all 
right.  I  don't  know  whether  we  did  right,  after  all,  in 
jumping  the  camp  here.  I  wouldn't  like  to  feel  that  I'd 
got  Charlie  into  our  quarrel  only  to  have  him  killed. " 

Wilbur  stared  at  this  new  Moran  in  no  little  amaze 
ment.  Where  was  the  reckless,  untamed  girl  of  the 
previous  night,  who-  had  sworn  at  him  and  denounced 
his  niggling  misgivings  as  to  right  and  wrong? 

"Hoh!"  he  retorted  impatiently,  "Charlie's  right 
enough.  And,  besides,  I  didn't  force  him  to  anything. 
I — we,  that  is,  we  took  the  same  chances.  If  I  hadn't 
done  for  my  man  there  behind  the  cabin  he  would  have 
done  for  me.  At  all  events,  we  carried  our  point.  We 
got  the  loot.  They  took  it  from  us,  and  we  were  strong 
enough  to  get  it  back. " 

Moran  merely  nodded,  as  though  satisfied  with  his 
decision,  and  added: 

"Well,  what  next,  mate?" 

"We'll  get  back  to  the  Bertha  now  and  put  to  sea  as 
soon  as  we  can  catch  the  tide.  I'll  send  Jim  and  two  of 
the  other  men  across  in  the  dory  with  Charlie.  The  rest 
of  us  will  go  around  by  the  shore.  We've  got  to  have  a 
chin-chin  with  Hoang,  if  he  don't  get  loose  aboard  there 
and  fire  the  boat  before  we  can  get  back.  I  don't  pro 
pose  taking  these  beachcombers  back  to  'Frisco  with  us.  " 

"  What  will  we  do  with  the  two  prisoners  ? "  she  asked. 

"Let  them  go;  we've  got  their  arms." 


A   CHANGE   IN   LEADERS  307 

The  positions  of  the  two  were  reversed.  It  was 
Wilbur  who  assumed  control  and  direction  of  what  went 
forward,  Moran  taking  his  advice  and  relying  upon  his 
judgment. 

In  accordance  with  Wilbur's  orders,  Charlie  was 
carried  aboard  the  dory,  which,  with  two  Chinamen  at 
the  oars  and  the  ambergris  stowed  again  in  the  cuddy, 
at  once  set  off  for  the  schooner.  Wilbur  himself  cut  the 
ropes  on  the  two  prisoners  and  bade  them  shift  for 
themselves.  The  rest  of  the  party  returned  to  the 
Bertha  Millner  around  the  wide  sweep  of  the  beach. 

It  was  only  by  high  noon,  under  the  flogging  of  a 
merciless  sun,  that  the  entire  crew  of  the  little  schooner 
once  more  reassembled  under  the  shadow  of  her  stranded 
hulk.  They  were  quite  worn  out ;  and  as  soon  as  Charlie 
was  lifted  aboard,  and  the  ambergris — or,  as  they  spoke 
of  it  now,  the  "loot" — was  safely  stowed  in  the  cabin, 
Wilbur  allowed  the  Chinamen  three  or  four  hours'  rest. 
They  had  had  neither  breakfast  nor  dinner;  but  their 
exhaustion  was  greater  than  their  hunger,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  entire  half-dozen  were  stretched  out  asleep 
on  the  forward  deck  in  the  shadow  of  the  foresail,  raised 
for  the  purpose  of  sheltering  them.  However,  Wilbur 
and  Moran  sought  out  Hoang,  whom  they  found  as  they 
had  left  him — bound  upon  the  floor  of  the  cabin. 

"Now  we  have  a  talk — savvy?"  Wilbur  told  him  as 
he  loosed  the  ropes  about  his  wrists  and  ankles.  "We 
got  our  loot  back  from  you,  old  man,  and  we  got  one 
of  your  men  into  the  bargain.  You  woke  up  the  wrong 
crowd,  Hoang,  when  you  went  up  against  this  outfit. 
You're  in  a  bad  way,  my  friend.  Your  junk  is  wrecked; 
all  your  oil  and  blubber  from  the  whale  is  lost;  four  of 
your  men  have  run  away,  one  is  killed,  another  one  we 
caught  and  let  go,  another  one  has  been  hamstrung; 
and  you  yourself  are  our  prisoner,  with  your  teeth  filed 


3o8          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

down  to  your  gums.  Now,"  continued  Wilbur,  with  the 
profoundest  gravity,  "I  hope  this  will  be  a  lesson  to  you. 
Don't  try  and  get  too  much  the  next  time.  Just  be 
content  with  what  is  yours  by  right,  or  what  you  are 
strong  enough  to  keep,  and  don't  try  to  fight  white 
people.  Other  coolies,  I  don't  say.  But  when  you 
try  to  get  the  better  of  white  people  you  are  out  of  your 
class." 

The  little  beachcomber  (he  was  scarcely  above  five 
feet)  rubbed  his  chafed  wrists  and  fixed  Wilbur  with  his 
tiny,  twinkling  eyes. 

"What  you  do  now?" 

"We  go  home.  I'm  going  to  maroon  you  and  your 
people  here  on  this  beach.  You  deserve  that  I  should 
let  you  eat  your  fists  by  way  of  table-board;  but  I'm  no 
such  dirt  as  you.  When  our  men  left  the  schooner  they 
brought  off  with  them  a  good  share  of  our  provisions. 
I'll  leave  them  here  for  you — and  there's  plenty  of  turtle 
and  abalones  to  be  had  for  the  catching.  Some  of  the 
American  men-of-war,  I  believe,  come  down  to  this  bay 
for  target  practice  twice  a  year,  and  if  we  speak  any 
on  the  way  up  we'll  ask  them  to  call  here  for  castaways. 
That's  what  I'll  do  for  you,  and  that's  all !  If  you 
don't  like  it,  you  can  set  out  to  march  up  the  coast  till 
you  hit  a  town;  but  I  wouldn't  advise  you  to  try  it. 
Now  what  have  you  got  to  say?" 

Hoang  was  silent.  His  queue  had  become  unbound 
for  half  its  length,  and  he  plaited  it  anew,  winking  his 
eyes  thoughtfully. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say  ?"  said  Moran. 

"I  lose  face,"  answered  Hoang  at  length,  calmly. 

"You  lose  face?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  lose  face,"  he  insisted;  then  added:  "I  heap  'shamed. 
You  fightee  my  China  boy;  you  catchee  me.  My  boy 
no  mo'  hab  me  fo'  boss — savvy?  I  go  back;  him  no 


A   CHANGE   IN   LEADERS  309 

likee  me.  Mebbee  all  same  killee  me.  I  lose  face — • 
no  mo'  boss." 

"What  a  herd  of  wild  cattle  !"  muttered  Wilbur. 

"There's  something  in  what  he  says,  don't  you  think, 
mate?"  observed  Moran,  bringing  a  braid  over  each 
shoulder  and  stroking  it  according  to  her  habit. 

"We'll  ask  Jim  about  it,"  decided  Wilbur. 

But  Jim  at  once  confirmed  Hoang's  statement.  "Oh, 
Kai-gingh  killum  no-good  boss,  fo'  sure,"  he  declared. 

"Don't  you  think,  mate,"  said  Moran,  "we'd  better 
take  him  up  to  'Frisco  with  us  ?  We've  had  enough 
fighting  and  killing." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  the  defeated  beachcomber, 
the  whipped  buccaneer  who  had  "lost  face"  and  no 
longer  dared  look  his  men  in  the  eye,  should  be  taken 
aboard. 

By  four  o'clock  next  morning  Wilbur  had  the  hands  at 
work  digging  the  sand  from  around  the  Bertha  Millner's 
bow.  The  line  by  which  she  was  to  be  warped  off  was 
run  out  to  the  ledge  of  the  rock;  fresh  water  was  taken 
on;  provisions  for  the  marooned  beachcombers  were 
cached  upon  the  beach;  the  dory  was  taken  aboard, 
gaskets  were  cast  off,  and  hatches  battened  down. 

At  high  tide,  all  hands  straining  upon  the  warp,  the 
schooner  was  floated  off,  and  under  touch  of  the  lightest 
airs  drew  almost  imperceptibly  away  from  the  land. 
They  were  quite  an  hour  crawling  out  to  the  heads  of 
the  bay.  But  here  the  breeze  was  freshening.  Moran 
took  the  wheel;  the  flying-jib  and  staysail  were  set;  the 
wake  began  to  whiten  under  the  schooner's  stern;  the 
forefoot  sang;  the  Pacific  opened  out  more  and  more; 
and  by  1 2  130  o'clock  Moran  put  the  wheel  over,  and,  as 
the  schooner's  bow  swung  to  the  northward,  cried  to 
Wilbur: 

"Mate,  look  your  last  of  Magdalena  Bay  !" 


310          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

Standing  at  her  side,  Wilbur  turned  and  swept  the 
curve  of  the  coast  with  a  single  glance.  The  vast,  heat- 
scourged  hoop  of  yellow  sand,  the  still,  smooth  shield 
of  indigo  water,  with  its  beds  of  kelp,  had  become  insen 
sibly  dear  to  him.  It  was  all  familiar,  friendly,  and 
hospitable.  Hardly  an  acre  of  that  sweep  of  beach  that 
did  not  hold  the  impress  of  his  foot.  There  was  the 
point  near  by  the  creek  where  he  and  Moran  first  landed 
to  fill  the  water-casks  and  to  gather  abalones ;  the  creek 
itself,  where  he  had  snared  quail;  the  sand-pit,  with 
its  whitened  whale's  skull,  where  he  and  Moran  had 
beached  the  schooner;  and  there,  last  of  all,  that  spot  of 
black  over  which  still  hung  a  haze  of  brown -gray  smoke, 
the  charred  ruins  of  the  old  Portuguese  whaling-cabin, 
where  they  had  outfought  the  beachcombers. 

For  a  moment  Wilbur  and  Moran  looked  back  without 
speaking.  They  stood  on  the  quarterdeck,  in  the  shadow 
of  the  mainsail,  shut  off  from  the  sight  of  the  schooner's 
crew,  and  for  the  instant  quite  alone. 

"Well,  Moran,  it's  good-by  to  the  old  place,  isn't  it?" 
said  Wilbur  at  length. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  deep  voice  pitched  even  deeper 
than  usual.  "Mate,  great  things  have  happened  there." 

"It  doesn't  look  like  a  place  for  a  tong  row  with 
Chinese  pirates,  though,  does  it  ?"  he  said;  but  even  as  he 
spoke  the  words  he  guessed  that  that  was  not  what 
he  meant. 

"Oh,  what  did  that  amount  to?"  she  said,  with  an 
impatient  movement  of  her  head.  "It  was  there  that  I 
first  knew  myself;  and  knew  that,  after  all,  you  were  a 
man  and  I  was  a  woman;  and  that  there  was  just  us — 
you  and  I — in  the  world;  and  that  you  loved  me  and  I 
loved  you,  and  that  nothing  else  was  worth  thinking  of." 

Wilbur  shut  his  hand  down  over  hers  as  it  gripped 
a  spoke  of  the  wheel. 


A  CHANGE   IN   LEADERS  311 

"Moran,  I  knew  that  long  since,"  he  said.  "Such  a 
month  as  this  has  been  !  Why,  I  feel  as  though  I  had 
only  begun  to  live  since  I  began  to  love  you." 

"And  you  do,  mate?"  she  answered — "you  do  love 
me,  and  always  will?  Oh!  you  don't  know,"  she  went 
on,  interrupting  his  answer,  "you  haven't  a  guess  how 
the  last  two  days  have  changed  me.  Something  has 
happened  here" — and  she  put  both  her  hands  over  her 
breast.  "I'm  all  different  here,  mate.  It's  all  you 
inside  here — all  you  !  And  it  hurts,  and  I'm  proud  that 
it  does  hurt.  Oh!"  she  cried  of  a  sudden,  "I  don't 
know  how  to  love  yet,  and  I  do  it  very  badly,  and  I  can't 
tell  you  how  I  feel,  because  I  can't  even  tell  it  to  myself. 
But  you  must  be  good  to  me  now."  The  deep  voice 
trembled  a  little.  "Good  to  me,  mate,  and  true  to  me, 
mate,  because  I've  only  you,  and  all  of  me  is  yours. 
Mate,  be  good  to  me,  and  always  be  kind  to  me.  I'm 
not  Moran  any  more.  I'm  not  proud  and  strong  and 
independent,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  lonely.  I  want  you 
— I  want  you  always  with  me.  I'm  just  a  woman  now, 
dear — just  a  woman  that  loves  you  with  a  heart  she's 
just  found." 

Wilbur  could  find  no  words  to  answer.  There  was 
something  so  pathetic  and  at  the  same  time  so  noble  in 
Moran's  complete  surrender  of  herself,  and  her  depen 
dence  upon  him,  her  unquestioned  trust  in  him  and  his 
goodness,  that  he  was  suddenly  smitten  with  awe  at  the 
sacredness  of  the  obligation  thus  imposed  on  him.  She 
was  his  now,  to  have  and  to  hold,  to  keep,  to  protect,  and 
to  defend — she  who  was  once  so  glorious  of  her  strength, 
of  her  savage  isolation,  her  unviolate,  pristine  maiden 
hood.  All  words  seemed  futile  and  inadequate  to  him. 

She  came  close  to  him,  and  put  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders,  and,  looking  him  squarely  in  the  eye,  said: 

"You  do  love  me,  mate,  and  you  always  will?" 


3 1 2          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

"Always,  Moran,"  said  Wilbur,  simply.  He  took  her 
in  his  arms,  and  she  laid  her  cheek  against  his  for  a 
moment,  then  took  his  head  between  her  hands  and 
kissed  him. 

Two  days  passed.  The  Bertha  Millner  held  steady  to 
her  northward  course,  Moran  keeping  her  well  in  toward 
the  land.  Wilbur  maintained  a  lookout  from  the  crow's- 
nest  in  the  hope  of  sighting  some  white  cruiser  or  battle 
ship  on  her  way  south  for  target-practise.  In  the  cache 
of  provisions  he  had  left  for  the  beachcombers  he  had 
inserted  a  message,  written  by  Hoang,  to  the  effect  that 
they  might  expect  to  be  taken  off  by  a  United  States 
man-of-war  within  the  month. 

Hoang  did  not  readily  recover  his  "loss  of  face." 
The  Bertha's  Chinamen  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
this  member  of  a  hostile  tong ;  and  the  humiliated  beach 
comber  kept  almost  entirely  to  himself,  sitting  on  the 
fo'c's'le-head  all  day  long,  smoking  his  sui-yen-hu  and 
brooding  silently  to  himself. 

Moran  had  taken  the  lump  of  ambergris  from  out 
Kitchell's  old  hammock,  and  had  slung  the  hammock 
itself  in  the  schooner's  waist,  and  Charlie  was  made  as 
comfortable  as  possible  therein.  They  could  do  but 
little  for  him,  however;  and  he  was  taken  from  time  to 
time  with  spells  of  coughing  that  racked  him  with  dread 
ful  agony.  At  length  one  noon,  just  after  Moran  had 
taken  the  sun  and  had  calculated  that  the  Bertha  was 
some  eight  miles  to  the  southwest  of  San  Diego,  she  was 
surprised  to  hear  Wilbur  calling  her  sharply.  She  ran 
to  him  and  found  him  standing  in  the  waist  by  Charlie's 
hammock. 

The  Chinaman  was  dying,  and  knew  it.  He  was 
talking  in  a  faint  and  feeble  voice  to  Wilbur  as  she  came 
up,  and  was  trying  to  explain  to  him  that  he  was  sorry 
he  had  deserted  the  schooner  during  the  scare  in  the  bay. 


A   CHANGE   IN   LEADERS  313 

"Plenty  muchee  solly, "  he  said;  "China  boy,  him 
heap  flaid  of  Feng-shui.  When  Feng-shui  no  likee,  we 
then  must  go  chop-chop.  Plenty  much  solly  I  leave  urn 
schooner  that  night;  solly  plenty — savvy?" 

"Of  course  we  savvy,  Charlie,"  said  Moran.  "You 
weren't  afraid  when  it  came  to  fighting. " 

"I  die  pletty  soon,"  said  Charlie  calmly.  "You  say 
you  gib  me  fifteen  hundled  dollah  ? " 

"Yes,  yes;  that  was  our  promise.  What  do  you  want 
done  with  it,  Charlie?" 

"I  want  plenty  fine  funeral  in  Chinatown  in  San 
Flancisco.  Oh,  heap  fine !  You  buy  um  first-chop 
coffin — savvy?  Silver  heap  much — costum  big  money. 
You  gib  my  money  to  Hop  Sing  Association,  topside 
Ming  Yen  temple.  You  savvy  Hop  Sing? — one  Six 
Companies." 

"Yes,  yes." 

"Tellum  Hop  Sing  I  want  funeral — four-piecee  horse. 
You  no  flogettee  horse?"  he  added  apprehensively. 

"No,  I'll  not  forget  the  horses,  Charlie.  You  shall 
have  four." 

"Want  six-piecee  band  musicians — China  music — 
heap  plenty  gong.  You  no  flogettee?  Two-piecee 
priest,  all  dressum  white — savvy?  You  mus'  buy  um 
coffin  yo'self.  Velly  fine  coffin,  heap  much  silver,  an' 
four-piecee  horse.  You  catchum  fireclacker — one,  five, 
seven  hundled  fireclacker,  make  um  big  noise;  an'  loast 
pig,  an'  plenty  lice  an'  China  blandy.  Heap  fine  funeral, 
costum  fifteen  hundled  dollah.  I  be  bury  all  same 
Mandarin — all  same  Little  Pete.  You  plomise,  sure?" 

"I  promise  you,  Charlie.  You  shall  have  a  funeral 
finer  than  Little  Pete's." 

Charlie  nodded  his  head  contentedly,  drawing  a  breath 
of  satisfaction. 

"Bimeby  Hop  Sing  sendum  body  back  China."     He 


314          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

closed  his  eyes  and  lay  for  a  long  time,  worn  out  with  the 
effort  of  speaking,  as  if  asleep.  Suddenly  he  opened  his 
eyes  wide.  "You  no  flogettee  horse?" 

"Four  horses,  Charlie.     I'll  remember." 

He  drooped  once  more,  only  to  rouse  again  at  the  end 
of  a  few  minutes  with : 

"First-chop  coffin,  plenty  much  silver;"  and  again,  a 
little  later  and  very  feebly:  "Six-piecee — band  music — • 
China  music — four-piecee — gong — four.  " 

"  I  promise  you,  Charlie,  "  said  Wilbur. 

"Now,"  answered  Charlie — "now  I  die." 

And  the  low-caste  Cantonese  coolie,  with  all  the 
dignity  and  calmness  of  a  Cicero,  composed  himself  for 
death. 

An  hour  later  Wilbur  and  Moran  knew  that  he  was 
dead.  Yet,  though  they  had  never  left  the  hammock, 
they  could  not  have  told  at  just  what  moment  he  died. 

Later  on,  that  same  afternoon,  Wilbur,  from  the 
crow's-nest,  saw  the  lighthouse  on  Point  Loma  and  the 
huge,  rambling  bulk  of  the  Coronado  Hotel  spreading 
out  and  along  the  beach. 

It  was  the  outpost  of  civilization.  They  were  getting 
back  to  the  world  again.  Within  an  hour's  ride  of  the 
hotel  were  San  Diego,  railroads,  newspapers,  and  police 
men.  Just  off  the  hotel,  however,  Wilbur  could  discern 
the  gleaming  white  hull  of  a  United  States  man-of-war. 
With  the  glass  he  could  make  her  out  to  be  one  of  the 
monitors — the  Monterey  in  all  probability. 

After  advising  with  Moran,  it  was  decided  to  put  into 
land.  The  report  as  to  the  castaways  could  be  made  to 
the  Monterey,  and  Charlie's  body  forwarded  to  his  tong 
in  San  Francisco. 

In  two  hours'  time  the  schooner  was  well  up,  and 
Wilbur  stood  by  Moran's  side  at  the  wheel,  watching 
and  studying  the  familiar  aspect  of  Coronado  Beach. 


A  CHANGE   IN  LEADERS 


"It's  a  great  winter  resort,"  he  told  her.  "I  was 
down  here  with  a  party  two  years  ago.  Nothing  has 
changed.  You  see  that  big  sort  of  round  wing,  Moran, 
all  full  of  windows?  That's  the  dining-room.  And 
there's  the  bathhouse  and  the  bowling  alley.  See  the 
people  on  the  beach,  and  the  girls  in  white  duck  skirts, 
and  look  up  there  by  the  veranda — let  me  take  the  glass 
—yes,  there's  a  tally-ho  coach.  Isn't  it  queer  to  get 
back  to  this  sort  of  thing  after  Magdalena  Bay  and 
the  beachcombers?" 

Moran  spun  the  wheel  without  reply,  and  gave  an 
order  to  Jim  to  ease  off  the  foresheet. 


XII 
NEW  CONDITIONS 

THE  winter  season  at  the  Hotel  del  Coronado  had 
been  unusually  gay  that  year,  and  the  young  lady 
who  wrote  the  society  news  in  diary  form  for  one 
of  the  San  Francisco  weekly  papers  had  held  forth 
at  much  length  upon  the  hotel's  "unbroken  succession 
of  festivities."  She  had  also  noted  that  "prominent 
among  the  newest  arrivals"  had  been  Mr.  Nat 
Ridgeway,  of  San  Francisco,  who  had  brought  down 
from  the  city,  aboard  his  elegant  and  sumptuously 
fitted  yacht  Petrel,  a  jolly  party,  composed  largely  of 
the  season's  debutantes.  To  be  mentioned  in  the  latter 
category  was  Miss  Josie  Herrick,  whose  lavender  coming- 
out  tea  at  the  beginning  of  the  season  was  still  a  subject 
of  comment  among  the  gossips — and  all  the  rest  of  it. 

The  Petrel  had  been  in  the  harbour  but  a  few  days, 
and  on  this  evening  a  dance  was  given  at  the  hotel  in 
honour  of  her  arrival.  It  was  to  be  a  cotillion,  and 
Nat  Ridgeway  was  going  to  lead  with  Josie  Herrick. 
There  had  been  a  coaching  party  to  Tia  Juana  that 
day,  and  Miss  Herrick  had  returned  to  the  hotel  only  in 
time  to  dress.  By  9:30  she  emerged  from  the  process — 
which  had  involved  her  mother,  her  younger  sister,  her 
maid,  and  one  of  the  hotel  chambermaids — a  dainty, 
firm-corseted  little  body,  all  tulle,  white  satin  and 
high-piled  hair.  She  carried  Marshal  Neil  roses,  ordered 
by  wire  from  Monterey;  and  about  an  hour  later,  when 
Ridgeway  gave  the  nod  to  the  waiting  musicians,  and 


NEW  CONDITIONS  317 

swung  off  to  the  beat  of  a  two-step,  there  was  not 
a  more  graceful  little  figure  upon  the  floor  of  the  incom 
parable  round  ballroom  of  the  Coronado  Hotel. 

The  cotillion  was  a  great  success.  The  ensigns  and 
younger  officers  of  the  monitor — at  that  time  anchored 
off  the  hotel — attended  in  uniform;  and  enough  of  the 
members  of  what  was  known  in  San  Francisco  as  the 
"  dancing  set"  were  present  to  give  the  affair  the  neces 
sary  entrain.  Even  Jerry  Haight,  who  belonged  more 
distinctly  to  the  "country-club  set,"  and  who  had 
spent  the  early  part  of  that  winter  shooting  elk  in 
Oregon,  was  among  the  ranks  of  the  "rovers,"  who 
grouped  themselves  about  the  draughty  doorways,  and 
endeavoured  to  appear  unconscious  each  time  Ridgeway 
gave  the  signal  for  a  "break. " 

The  figures  had  gone  round  the  hall  once.  The 
"first  set"  was  out  again,  and  as  Ridgeway  guided  Miss 
Herrick  by  the  "rovers"  she  looked  over  the  array  of 
shirt-fronts,  searching  for  Jerry  Haight. 

"Do  you  see  Mr.  Haight?"  she  asked  of  Ridgeway. 
"I  wanted  to  favour  him  this  break.  I  owe  him  two 
already,  and  he'll  never  forgive  me  if  I  overlook  him 
now. " 

Jerry  Haight  had  gone  to  the  hotel  office  for  a  few 
moments'  rest  and  a  cigarette,  and  was  nowhere  in 
sight.  But  when  the  set  broke,  and  Miss  Herrick, 
despairing  of  Jerry,  had  started  out  to  favour  one  of 
the  younger  ensigns,  she  suddenly  jostled  against  him, 
pushing  his  way  eagerly  across  the  floor  in  the  direction 
of  the  musicians'  platform. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "Mr.  Haight,  you've  missed  your 
chance — I've  been  looking  for  you." 

But  Jerry  did  not  hear — he  seemed  very  excited. 
He  crossed  the  floor,  almost  running,  and  went  up  on 
the  platform  where  the  musicians  were  meandering 


3i 8          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

softly  through  the  mazes  of  "La  Paloma,"  and  brought 
them  to  an  abrupt  silence. 

"Here,  I  say,  Haight !"  exclaimed  Ridgeway,  who  was 
near  by,  "you  can't  break  up  my  figure  like  that." 

"Gi'  me  a  call  there  on  the  bugle,"  said  Haight 
rapidly  to  the  cornettist.  "Anything  to  make  'em  keep 
quiet  a  moment." 

The  cornettist  sounded  a  couple  of  notes,  and  the 
cotillion  paused  in  the  very  act  of  the  break.  The 
shuffling  of  feet  grew  still,  and  the  conversation  ceased. 
A  diamond  brooch  had  been  found,  no  doubt,  or  some 
supper  announcement  was  to  be  made.  But  Jerry 
Haight,  with  a  great  sweep  of  his  arm,  the  forgotten 
cigarette  between  his  fingers,  shouted  out  breathlessly: 

"Ross  Wilbur  is  out  in  the  office  of  the  hotel !" 

There  was  an  instant's  silence,  and  then  a  great  shout. 
Wilbur  found  !  Ross  Wilbur  come  back  from  the  dead  ! 
Ross  Wilbur,  hunted  for  and  bootlessly  traced  from 
Buenos  Ayres  in  the  south  to  the  Aleutian  Islands  in 
the  north.  Ross  Wilbur,  the  puzzle  of  every  detective 
bureau  on  the  coast ;  the  subject  of  a  thousand  theories ; 
whose  name  had  figured  in  the  scareheads  of  every 
newspaper  west  of  the  Mississippi.  Ross  Wilbur, 
seen  at  a  fashionable  tea  and  his  club  of  an  afternoon, 
then  suddenly  blotted  out  from  the  world  of  men; 
swallowed  up  and  engulfed  by  the  unknown,  with  not 
so  much  as  a  button  left  behind.  Ross  Wilbur  the 
suicide;  Ross  Wilbur  the  murdered;  Ross  Wilbur, 
victim  of  a  band  of  kidnappers,  the  hero  of  some  dreadful 
story  that  was  never  to  be  told,  the  mystery,  the  legend 
— behold,  he  was  there !  Back  from  the  unknown, 
dropped  from  the  clouds,  spewed  up  again  from  the 
bowels  of  the  earth — a  veritable  god  from  the  machine 
who  in  a  single  instant  was  to  disentangle  all  the  unex 
plained  complications  of  those  past  winter  months. 


NEW  CONDITIONS  319 

"Here  he  comes  !"  shouted  Jerry,  his  eyes  caught  by 
a  group  of  men  in  full  dress  and  gold  lace  who  came 
tramping  down  the  hall  to  the  ballroom,  bearing  a 
nondescript  figure  on  their  shoulders.  "Here  he  comes 
— the  boys  are  bringing  him  in  here !  Oh !"  he  cried, 
turning  to  the  musicians,  "can't  you  play  something? — 
anything  !  Hit  it  up  for  all  you're  worth  !  Ridgeway — 
Nat,  look  here!  Ross  was  Yale,  y'  know — Yale  '95; 
ain't  we  enough  Yale  men  here  to  give  him  the  yell !" 

Out  of  all  time  and  tune,  but  with  a  vigour  that  made 
up  for  both,  the  musicians  banged  into  a  patriotic  air. 
Jerry,  standing  on  a  chair  that  itself  was  standing  on  the 
platform,  led  half  a  dozen  frantic  men  in  the  long  thunder 
of  the  " Brek-kek-kek-kek,  co-ex,  co-ex." 

Around  the  edges  of  the  hall  excited  girls,  and  chape 
rons  no  less  agitated,  were  standing  up  on  chairs  and 
benches,  splitting  their  gloves  and  breaking  their  fans  in 
their  enthusiasm ;  while  every  male  dancer  on  the  floor — 
ensigns  in  their  gold-laced  uniforms  and  "rovers"  in 
starched  and  immaculate  shirt-bosoms — cheered  and 
cheered  and  struggled  with  one  another  to  shake  hands 
with  a  man  whom  two  of  their  number — old  Yale  grads., 
with  memories  of  athletic  triumphs  yet  in  their  minds — 
carried  into  that  ballroom,  borne  high  upon  their 
shoulders. 

And  the  hero  of  the  occasion,  the  centre  of  all  this 
enthusiasm — thus  carried  as  if  in  triumph  into  this 
assembly  in  evening  dress,  in  white  tulle  and  whiter  kid, 
odourous  of  delicate  sachets  and  scarce-perceptible  per 
fumes — was  a  figure  unhandsome  and  unkempt  beyond 
description.  His  hair  was  long,  and  hanging  over  his 
eyes.  A  thick,  uncared-for  beard  concealed  the  mouth 
and  chin.  He  was  dressed  in  a  Chinaman's  blouse  and 
jeans — the  latter  thrust  into  slashed  and  tattered  boots. 
The  tan  and  weather-beatings  of  nearly  half  a  year  of  the 


320          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

tropics  were  spread  over  his  face;  a  partly  healed  scar 
disfigured  one  temple  and  cheek-bone;  the  hands,  to 
the  very  finger -nails,  were  gray  with  grime;  the  jeans  and 
blouse  and  boots  were  fouled  with  grease,  with  oil,  with 
pitch,  and  all  manner  of  the  dirt  of  an  uncared-for  ship. 
And  as  the  dancers  of  the  cotillion  pressed  about,  and  a 
hundred  kid-gloved  hands  stretched  toward  his  own 
palms,  there  fell  from  Wilbur's  belt  upon  the  waxed  floor 
of  the  ballroom  the  knife  he  had  so  grimly  used  in  the 
fight  upon  the  beach,  the  ugly  stains  still  blackening  on 
the  haft. 

There  was  no  more  cotillion  that  night.  They  put 
him  down  at  last ;  and  in  half  a  dozen  sentences  Wilbur 
told  them  of  how  he  had  been  shanghaied — told  them  of 
Magdalena  Bay,  his  fortune  in  the  ambergris,  and  the 
fight  with  the  beachcombers. 

"You  people  are  going  down  there  for  target -practice, 
aren't  you?"  he  said,  turning  to  one  of  the  Monterey's 
officers  in  the  crowd  about  him.  ''Yes?  Well,  you'll 
find  the  coolies  there,  on  the  beach,  waiting  for  you.  All 
but  one,"  he  added,  grimly. 

"We  marooned  six  of  them,  but  the  seventh  didn't 
need  to  be  marooned.  They  tried  to  plunder  us  of  our 
boat,  but  by ,  we  made  it  interesting  for  'em  ! " 

"I  say,  steady,  old  man!"  exclaimed  Nat  Ridgeway, 
glancing  nervously  toward  the  girls  in  the  surrounding 
group.  "This  isn't  Magdalena  Bay,  you  know." 

And  for  the  first  time  Wilbur  felt  a  genuine  pang  of 
disappointment  and  regret  as  ke  realized  that  it  was 
not. 

Half  an  hour  later  Ridgeway  drew  him  aside.  "I 
say,  Ross,  let's  get  out  of  here.  You  can't  stand  here 
talking  all  night.  Jerry  and  you  and  I  will  go  up  to  my 
rooms,  and  we  can  talk  there  in  peace.  I'll  order  up 
three  quarts  of  fizz,  and " 


NEW  CONDITIONS  321 

''Oh,  rot  your  fizz!"  declared  Wilbur.  "If  you  love 
me,  give  me  Christian  tobacco. " 

As  they  were  going  out  of  the  ballroom,  Wilbur  caught 
sight  of  Josie  Herrick,  and,  breaking  away  from  the 
others,  ran  over  to  her. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  cried,  breathless.  "  To  think  and  to  think 
of  your  coming  back  after  all !  No,  I  don't  realize  it — I 
can't.  It  will  take  me  until  morning  to  find  out  that 
you've  really  come  back.  I  just  know  now  that  I'm 
happier  than  I  ever  was  in  my  life  before.  Oh!"  she 
cried,  "do  I  need  to  tell  you  how  glad  I  am?  It's  just 
too  splendid  for  words.  Do  you  know,  I  was  thought  to 
be  the  last  person  you  had  ever  spoken  to  while  alive,  and 

the  reporters  and  all Oh,  but  we  must  have  such  a 

talk  when  all  are  quiet  again !  And  our  dance — we've 
never  had  our  dance.  I've  got  your  card  yet.  Remember 
the  one  you  wrote  for  me  at  the  tea — a  facsimile  of  it  was 
published  in  all  the  papers.  You  are  going  to  be  a  hero 
when  you  get  back  to  San  Francisco.  Oh,  Ross  !  Ross  ! " 
she  cried,  the  tears  starting  to  her  eyes,  "you've  really 
come  back,  and  you  are  just  as  glad  as  I  am,  aren't  you — 
glad  that  you've  come  back — come  back  to  me?" 

Later  on,  in  Ridgeway's  room,  Wilbur  told  his  story 
again  more  in  detail  to  Ridgeway  and  Jerry.  All  but  one 
portion  of  it.  He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  speak 
to  them — these  society  fellows,  clubmen  and  city  bred — 
of  Moran.  How  he  was  going  to  order  his  life  hence 
forward — his  life,  that  he  felt  to  be  void  of  interest 
without  her — he  did  not  know.  That  was  a  question 
for  later  consideration. 

"We'll  give  another  cotillion!"  exclaimed  Ridgeway, 
"up  in  the  city — give  it  for  you,  Ross,  and  you'll  lead. 
It'll  be  the  event  of  the  season.  " 

Wilbur  uttered  an  exclamation  of  contempt.  "I've 
done  with  that  sort  of  foolery, "  he  answered. 


3  2  2          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

"Nonsense;  why,  think,  we'll  have  it  in  your  honour. 
Every  smart  girl  in  town  will  come,  and  you'll  be  the 
lion  of " 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand!"  cried  Wilbur 
impatiently.  "Do  you  think  there's  any  fun  in  that  for 
me  now?  Why,  man,  I've  fought — fought  with  a  naked 
dirk,  fought  with  a  coolie  who  snapped  at  me  like  an  ape 
— and  you  talk  to  me  of  dancing  and  functions  and  ger- 
man  favours !  It  wouldn't  do  some  of  you  people  a  bit 
of  harm  if  you  were  shanghaied  yourselves.  That  sort  of 
life,  if  it  don't  do  anything  else,  knocks  a  big  bit  of 
seriousness  into  you.  You  fellows  make  me  sick,"  he 
went  on  vehemently.  "As  though  there  wasn't  any 
thing  else  to  do  but  lead  cotillions  and  get  up  new 
figures !" 

"Well,  what  do  you  propose  to  do?"  asked  Ridgeway. 
"Where  are  you  going  now — back  to  Magdalena  Bay?" 

"No." 

"Where  then?" 

Wilbur  smote  the  table  with  his  first. 

"Cuba!"  he  cried.  "I've  got  a  crack  little  schooner 
out  in  the  bay  here,  and  I've  got  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars'  worth  of  loot  aboard  of  her.  I've  tried  beach 
combing  for  awhile,  and  now  I'll  try  filibustering.  It 
may  be  a  crazy  idea,  but  it's  better  than  dancing.  I'd 
rather  lead  an  expedition  than  a  german,  and  you  can 
chew  on  that,  Nathaniel  Ridgeway." 

Jerry  looked  at  him  as  he  stood  there  before  them  in 
the  filthy,  reeking  blouse  and  jeans,  the  ragged  boots, 
and  the  mane  of  hair  and  tangled  beard,  and  remem 
bered  the  Wilbur  he  used  to  know — the  Wilbur  of  the 
carefully  creased  trousers,  the  satin  scarfs  and  fancy 
waistcoats. 

"You're  a  different  sort  than  when  you  went  away, 
Ross,"  said  Jerry. 


NEW  CONDITIONS  323 

"Right  you  are,"  answered  Wilbur. 

"But  I  will  venture  a  prophecy,"  continued  Jerry, 
looking  keenly  at  him.  "Ross,  you  are  a  born-and- 
bred  city  man.  It's  in  the  blood  of  you  and  the  bones 
of  you.  I'll  give  you  three  years  for  this  new  notion 
of  yours  to  wear  itself  out.  You  think  just  now  you're 
going  to  spend  the  rest  of  your  life  as  an  amateur  buc 
caneer.  In  three  years,  at  the  outside,  you'll  be  using 
your  'loot,'  as  you  call  it,  or  the  interest  of  it,  to  pay 
your  taxes  and  your  tailor,  your  pew  rent  and  your  club 
dues,  and  you'll  be  what  the  biographers  call  'a  respect 
able  member  of  the  community.'  ' 

"Did  you  ever  kill  a  man,  Jerry?"  asked  Wilbur. 
"No?  Well,  you  kill  one  some  day — kill  him  in  a  fair 
give-and-take  fight — and  see  how  it  makes  you  feel,  and 
what  influence  it  has  on  you,  and  then  come  back  and 
talk  to  me." 

It  was  long  after  midnight.     Wilbur  rose. 

"We'll  ring  for  a  boy,"  said  Ridgeway.  "and  get  you 
a  room.  I  can  fix  you  out  with  clothes  enough  in  the 
morning." 

Wilbur  stared  in  some  surprise,  and  then  said: 

"Why,  I've  got  the  schooner  to  look  after.  I  can't 
leave  those  coolies  alone  all  night." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going  on  board  at  this 
time  in  the  morning?" 

"Of  course!" 

"Why — but — but  you'll  catch  your  death  of  cold." 

Wilbur  stared  at  Ridgeway,  then  nodded  helplessly, 
and,  scratching  his  head,  said  half  loud : 

"No,  what's  the  use;  I  can't  make  'em  understand. 
Good-night.  I'll  see  you  in  the  morning." 

"We'll  all  come  out  and  visit  you  on  your  yacht," 
Ridgeway  called  after  him;  but  Wilbur  did  not  hear. 

In  answer  to  Wilbur's  whistle,  Jim  came  in  with  the 


324          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

dory  and  took  him  off  to  the  schooner.  Moran  met  him 
as  he  came  over  the  side. 

"I  took  the  watch  myself  to-night  and  let  the  boy 
turn  in,"  she  said.  "How  is  it  ashore,  mate!" 

"We've  come  back  to  the  world  of  little  things, 
Moran,"  said  Wilbur.  "But  we'll  pull  out  of  here  in  the 
morning  and  get  back  to  the  places  where  things  are 
real." 

"And  that's  a  good  hearing,  mate." 

"Let's  get  up  here  on  the  quarterdeck,"  added  Wilbur. 
"I've  something  to  propose  to  you." 

Moran  laid  an  arm  across  his  shoulder,  and  the  two 
walked  aft.  For  half  an  hour  Wilbur  talked  to  her 
earnestly  about  his  new  idea  of  filibustering;  and  as  he 
told  her  of  the  war  he  warmed  to  the  subject,  his  face 
glowing,  his  eyes  sparkling.  Suddenly,  however,  he 
broke  off. 

"But  no!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  don't  understand, 
Moran.  How  can  you — you're  foreign -born.  It's  no 
affair  of  yours  !" 

"Mate!  mate!"  cried  Moran,  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders.  "It's  you  who  don't  understand — don't 
understand  me.  Don't  you  know — can't  you  see? 
Your  people  are  mine  now.  I'm  happy  only  in  your 
happiness.  You  were  right — the  best  happiness  is 
the  happiness  one  shares.  And  your  sorrows  belong 
to  me,  just  as  I  belong  to  you,  dear.  Your  enemies  are 
mine,  and  your  quarrels  are  my  quarrels."  She  drew 
his  head  quickly  toward  her  and  kissed  him. 

In  the  morning  the  two  had  made  up  their  minds  to  a 
certain  vague  course  of  action.  To  get  away — any 
where — was  their  one  aim.  Moran  was  by  nature  a 
creature  unfit  for  civilization,  and  the  love  of  adventure 
and  the  desire  for  action  had  suddenly  leaped  to  life  in 
Wilbur's  blood  and  was  not  to  be  resisted.  They  would 


NEW  CONDITIONS  325 

get  up  to  San  Francisco,  dispose  of  their  "loot,"  outfit 
the  Bertha  Millner  as  a  filibuster,  and  put  to  sea  again. 
They  had  discussed  the  advisability  of  rounding  the 
Horn  in  so  small  a  ship  as  the  Bertha  Millner,  but  Moran 
had  settled  that  at  once. 

"I've  got  to  know  her  pretty  well,"  she  told  Wilbur. 
"She's  sound  as  a  nut.  Only  let's  get  away  from  this 
place." 

But  toward  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  after  their 
arrival  off  Coronado,  and  just  as  they  were  preparing  to 
get  under  way,  Hoang  touched  Wilbur's  elbow. 

"See-um  lil  one-piecee  smoke-boat;  him  come  chop- 
chop." 

In  fact,  a  little  steam-launch  was  rapidly  approaching 
the  schooner.  In  another  instant  she  was  alongside. 
Jerry,  Nat  Ridgeway,  Josie  Herrick,  and  an  elderly 
woman,  whom  Wilbur  barely  knew  as  Miss  Herrick's 
married  sister,  were  aboard. 

"We've  come  off  to  see  your  yacht!"  cried  Miss 
Herrick  to  Wilbur  as  the  launch  bumped  along  the 
schooner's  counter.  "Can  we  come  aboard  !"  She  looked 
very  pretty  in  her  crisp  pink  shirt-waist,  her  white 
duck  skirt,  and  white  kid  shoes,  her  sailor  hat  tilted  at  a 
barely  perceptible  angle.  The  men  were  in  white 
flannels  and  smart  yachting  suits.  "Can  we  come 
aboard?"  she  repeated. 

Wilbur  gasped  and  stared.  "Good  Lord!"  he  mut 
tered.  "Oh,  come  along,"  he  added  desperately. 

The  party  came  over  the  side. 

"Oh,  my!"  said  Miss  Herrick  blankly,  stopping 
short. 

The  decks,  masts  and  rails  of  the  shooner  were 
shiny  with  a  black  coating  of  dirt  and  grease;  the  sails 
were  gray  with  grime;  a  strangling  odour  of  oil  and  tar, 
of  cooking  and  of  opium,  of  Chinese  punk  and  drying 


326          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

fish,  pervaded  all  the  air.  In  the  waist,  Hoang  and 
Jim,  bare  to  the  belt,  their  queues  looped  around  their 
necks  to  be  out  of  the  way,  were  stowing  the  dory  and 
exchanging  high-pitched  monosyllables.  Miss  Herrick's 
sister  had  not  come  aboard.  The  three  visitors — 
Jerry,  Ridgeway,  and  Josie — stood  nervously  huddled 
together,  their  elbows  close  in,  as  if  to  avoid  contact  with 
the  prevailing  filth,  their  immaculate  white  outing- 
clothes  detaching  themselves  violently  against  the 
squalour  and  sordid  grime  of  the  schooner's  background. 

"Oh,  my!"  repeated  Miss  Herrick  in  dismay,  half 
closing  her  eyes.  "To  think  of  what  you  must  have 
been  through !  I  thought  you  had  some  kind  of  a 
yacht.  I  had  no  idea  it  would  be  like  this."  And 
as  she  spoke  Moran  came  suddenly  upon  the  group 
from  behind  the  foresail,  and  paused  in  abrupt  surprise, 
her  thumbs  in  her  belt. 

She  still  wore  men's  clothes  and  was  booted  to  the 
knee.  The  heavy  blue  woolen  shirt  was  open  at  the 
throat,  the  sleeves  rolled  half-way  up  her  large  white 
arms.  In  her  belt  she  carried  her  haftless  Scandinavian 
dirk.  She  was  hatless  as  ever,  and  her  heavy,  fragrant 
cables  of  rye-hued  hair  fell  over  her  shoulders  and 
breast  to  far  below  her  belt. 

Miss  Herrick  started  sharply,  and  Moran  turned  an 
inquiring  glance  upon  Wilbur.  Wilbur  took  his  reso 
lution  in  both  hands. 

"Miss  Herrick,"  he  said,  "this  is  Moran — Moran 
Sternersen." 

Moran  took  a  step  forward,  holding  out  her  hand. 
Josie,  all  bewildered,  put  her  tight-gloved  fingers  into 
the  calloused  palm,  looking  up  nervously  into  Moran 's 
face. 

"I'm  sure,"  she  said  feebly,  almost  breathlessly,  "I 
— I'm  sure  I'm  very  pleased  to  meet  Miss  Sternersen." 


NEW  CONDITIONS  327 

It  was  long  before  the  picture  left  Wilbur's  imagina 
tion.  Josie  Herrick,  petite,  gowned  in  white,  crisp  from 
her  maid's  grooming;  and  Moran,  sea-rover  and  daughter 
of  a  hundred  Vikings,  towering  above  her,  booted  and 
belted,  gravely  clasping  Josie's  hand  in  her  own  huge 
fist. 


XIII 

MORAN  STERNERSEN 

SAN  FRANCISCO  once  more !  For  two  days  the 
Bertha  Millner  had  been  beating  up  the  coast,  fighting 
her  way  against  northerly  winds,  butting  into  head 
seas. 

The  warmth,  the  stillness,  the  placid,  drowsing  quiet 
of  Magdalena  Bay,  steaming  under  the  golden  eye  of  a 
tropic  heaven,  the  white,  baked  beach,  the  bayheads, 
striated  with  the  mirage  in  the  morning,  the  coruscating 
sunset,  the  enchanted  mystery  of  the  purple  night, 
with  its  sheen  of  stars  and  riding  moon,  were  now 
replaced  by  the  hale  and  vigourous  snorting  of  the 
trades,  the  roll  of  breakers  to  landward,  and  the  unre 
mitting  gallop  of  the  unnumbered  multitudes  of  gray- 
green  seas,  careering  silently  past  the  schooner,  their 
crests  occasionally  hissing  into  brusque  eruptions  of 
white  froth,  or  smiting  broad  on  under  her  counter, 
showering  her  decks  with  a  spout  of  icy  spray.  It  was 
cold;  at  times  thick  fogs  cloaked  all  the  world  of  water. 
To  the  east,  a  procession  of  bleak  hills  defiled  slowly 
southward ;  lighthouses  were  passed ;  streamers  of  smoke 
on  the  western  horizon  marked  the  passage  of  steam 
ships;  and  once  they  met  and  passed  close  by  a  huge 
Cape  Homer,  a  great  deep-sea  tramp,  all  sails  set  and 
drawing,  rolling  slowly  and  leisurely  in  seas  that  made 
the  schooner  dance. 

At  last  the  Farallones  looked  over  the  ocean's  edge  to 
the  north;  then  came  the  whistling-buoy,  the  Seal  Rocks, 

328 


MORAN   STERNERSEN  329 

the  Heads,  Point  Reyes,  the  Golden  Gate  flanked  with 
the  old  red  Presidio,  Lime  Point,  with  its  watching 
cannon;  and  by  noon  of  a  gray  and  boisterous 
day,  under  a  lusty  wind  and  a  slant  of  rain,  just 
five  months  after  her  departure,  the  Bertha  Millner  let 
go  her  anchor  in  San  Francisco  Bay  some  few  hundred 
yards  off  the  Lifeboat  Station. 

In  this  berth  the  schooner  was  still  three  or  four 
miles  from  the  city  and  the  water-front.  But  Moran 
detested  any  nearer  approach  to  civilization,  and  Wilbur 
himself  was  willing  to  avoid,  at  least  for  one  day,  the 
publicity  which  he  believed  the  Bertha's  reappearance 
was  sure  to  attract.  He  remembered,  too,  that  the 
little  boat  carried  with  her  a  fortune  of  $100,000,  and 
decided  that  until  it  could  be  safely  landed  and  stored 
it  was  not  desirable  that  its  existence  should  be  known 
along  "the  Front." 

For  days,  weeks  even,  Wilbur  had  looked  eagerly 
forward  to  this  return  to  his  home.  He  had  seen  him 
self  again  in  his  former  haunts,  in  his  club,  and  in  the 
houses  along  Pacific  Avenue  where  he  was  received ;  but 
no  sooner  had  the  anchor-chain  ceased  rattling  in  the 
Bertha's  hawse-pipe  than  a  strange  revulsion  came  upon 
him.  The  new  man  that  seemed  to  have  so  suddenly 
sprung  to  life  within  him,  the  Wilbur  who  was  the  mate  of 
the  Bertha  Millner,  the  Wilbur  who  belonged  to  Moran, 
believed  that  he  could  see  nothing  to  be  desired  in  city 
life.  For  him  was  the  unsteady  deck  of  a  schooner, 
and  the  great  winds  and  the  tremendous  wheel  of  the 
ocean's  rim,  and  the  horizon  that  ever  fled  before  his 
following  prow;  so  he  told  himself,  so  he  believed. 
What  attractions  could  the  city  offer  him?  What 
amusements?  What  excitement?  He  had  been  flung 
off  the  smoothly  spinning  circumference  of  well- 
ordered  life  out  into  the  void. 


330          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

He  had  known  romance,  and  the  spell  of  the  great, 
simple,  and  primitive  emotions;  he  had  sat  down  to  eat 
with  buccaneers;  he  had  seen  the  fierce,  quick  leap  of 
unleashed  passions,  and  had  felt  death  swoop  close  at 
his  nape  and  pass  like  a  swift  spurt  of  cold  air.  City 
life,  his  old  life,  had  no  charm  for  him  now.  Wilbur 
honestly  believed  that  he  was  changed  to  his  heart's 
core.  He  thought  that,  like  Moran,  he  was  henceforth 
to  be  a  sailor  of  the  sea,  a  rover,  and  he  saw  the  rest  of 
his  existence  passed  with  her,  aboard  their  faithful 
little  schooner.  They  would  have  the  whole  round 
world  as  their  playground;  they  held  the  earth  and  the 
great  seas  in  fief;  there  was  no  one  to  let  or  to  hinder. 
They  two  belonged  to  each  other.  Once  outside  the 
Heads  again,  and  they  swept  the  land  of  cities  and  of 
little  things  behind  them,  and  they  two  were  left  alone 
once  more;  alone  in  the  great  world  of  romance. 

About  an  hour  after  her  arrival  off  the  station,  while 
Hoang  and  the  hands  were  furling  the  jib  and  foresail  and 
getting  the  dory  over  the  side,  Moran  remarked  to 
Wilbur: 

"It's  good  we  came  in  when  we  did,  mate;  the  glass  is 
going  down  fast,  and  the  wind's  breezing  up  from  the 
west;  we're  going  to  have  a  blow;  the  tide  will  be  going 
out  in  a  little  while,  and  we  never  could  have  come  in 
against  wind  and  tide." 

"Moran,"  said  Wilbur,  "I'm  going  ashore — into  the 
station  here;  there's  a  telephone  line  there;  see  the  wires  ? 
I  can't  so  much  as  turn  my  hand  over  before  I  have  some 
shore-going  clothes.  What  do  you  suppose  they  would 
do  to  me  if  I  appeared  on  Kearney  Street  in  this  outfit  ? 
I'll  ring  up  Langley  &  Michaels — they  are  the  wholesale 
chemists  in  town — and  have  their  agent  come  out  here 
and  talk  business  to  us  about  our  ambergris.  We've  got 
to  pay  the  men  their  prize-money;  then  as  soon  as  we 


MORAN   STERNERSEN  331 

get  our  own  money  in  hand  we  can  talk  about  overhaul 
ing  and  outfitting  the  Bertha.'' 

Moran  refused  to  accompany  him  ashore  and  into  the 
Lifeboat  Station.  Roofed  houses  were  objects  of  sus 
picion  to  her.  Already  she  had  begun  to  be  uneasy  at 
the  distant  sights  of  the  city  of  San  Francisco,  Nob, 
Telegraph,  Russian,  and  Rincon  hills,  all  swarming  with 
buildings  and  grooved  with  streets ;  even  the  land-locked 
harbour  fretted  her.  Wilbur  could  see  she  felt  impris 
oned,  confined.  When  he  had  pointed  out  the  Palace 
Hotel  to  her — a  vast  gray  cube  in  the  distance,  over 
topping  the  surrounding  roofs — she  had  sworn  under  her 
breath. 

"And  people  can  live  there!  Good  heavens !  Why 
not  rabbit -burrows,  and  be  done  with  it?  Mate, 
how  soon  can  we  be  out  to  sea  again?  I  hate  this 
place. " 

Wilbur  found  the  captain  of  the  Lifeboat  Station  in 
the  act  of  sitting  down  to  a  dinner  of  boiled  beef  and 
cabbage.  He  was  a  strongly  built,  well-looking  man, 
with  the  air  more  of  a  soldier  than  a  sailor.  He  had 
already  been  studying  the  schooner  through  his  front 
window  and  had  recognized  her,  and  at  once  asked 
Wilbur  news  of  Captain  Kitchell.  Wilbur  told  him  as 
much  of  his  story  as  was  necessary,  but  from  the  Captain's 
talk  he  gathered  that  the  news  of  his  return  had  long 
since  been  wired  from  Coronado,  and  that  it  would  be 
impossible  to  avoid  a  nine-days'  notoriety.  The  captain 
of  the  station  (his  name  was  Hodgson)  made  Wilbur 
royally  welcome,  insisted  upon  his  dining  with  him,  and 
himself  called  up  Langley  &  Michaels  as  soon  as  the  meal 
was  over. 

It  was  he  who  offered  the  only  plausible  solution  of  the 
mystery  of  the  lifting  and  shaking  of  the  schooner  and 
the  wrecking  of  the  junk.  Though  Wilbur  was  not 


332          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

satisfied  with  Hodgson's  explanation,  it  was  the  only 
one  he  ever  heard. 

When  he  had  spoken  of  the  matter,  Hodgson  had 
nodded  his  head.  "Sulphur-bottoms,"  he  said. 

' '  Sulphur-bottoms  ? ' ' 

"Yes;  they're  a  kind  of  right  whale;  they  get  barnacles 
and  a  kind  of  marine  lice  on  their  backs,  and  come  up 
and  scratch  themselves  against  a  ship's  keel,  just  like  a 
hog  under  a  fence.  " 

When  Wilbur's  business  was  done,  and  he  was  making 
ready  to  return  to  the  schooner,  Hodgson  remarked 
suddenly :  "  Hear  you've  got  a  strapping  fine  girl  aboard 
with  you?  Where  did  you  fall  in  with  her?"  and  he 
winked  and  grinned. 

Wilbur  started  as  though  struck,  and  took  himself 
hurriedly  away;  but  the  man's  words  had  touched  off  in 
his  brain  a  veritable  mine  of  conjecture.  Moran  in 
Magdalena  Bay  was  consistent,  congruous,  and  fitted 
into  her  environment.  But  how — how  was  Wilbur  to 
explain  her  to  San  Francisco,  and  how  could  his  behaviour 
seem  less  than  ridiculous  to  the  men  of  his  club  and  to 
the  women  whose  dinner  invitations  he  was  wont  to 
receive?  They  could  not  understand  the  change  that 
had  been  wrought  in  him;  they  did  not  know  Moran, 
the  savage,  half -tamed  Valkyrie  so  suddenly  become  a 
woman.  Hurry  as  he  would,  the  schooner  could  not  be 
put  to  sea  again  within  a  fortnight.  Even  though  he 
elected  to  live  aboard  in  the  meanwhile,  the  very  business 
of  her  preparation  would  call  him  to  the  city  again  and 
again.  Moran  could  not  be  kept  a  secret.  As  it  was, 
all  the  world  knew  of  her  by  now.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  could  easily  understand  her  position ;  to  her  it  seemed 
simplicity  itself  that  they  two  who  loved  each  other 
should  sail  away  and  pass  their  lives  together  upon  the 
sea,  as  she  and  her  father  had  done  before. 


MORAN   STERNERSEN  333 

Like  most  men,  Wilbur  had  to  walk  when  he  was  think 
ing  hard.  He  sent  the  dory  back  to  the  schooner  with 
word  to  Moran  that  he  would  take  a  walk  around  the 
beach  and  return  in  an  hour  or  two.  He  set  off  along 
the  shore  in  the  direction  of  Fort  Mason,  the  old  red 
brick  fort  at  the  entrance  of  the  Golden  Gate.  At 
this  point  in  the  Presidio  Government  reservation  the 
land  is  solitary.  Wilbur  followed  the  line  of  the  beach 
to  the  old  fort;  and  there  on  the  very  threshold  of  the 
western  world,  at  the  very  outpost  of  civilization,  sat 
down  in  the  lee  of  the  crumbling  fortification  and  scene 
by  scene  reviewed  the  extraordinary  events  of  the  past 
six  months. 

In  front  of  him  ran  the  narrow  channel  of  the  Golden 
Gate;  to  the  right  was  the  bay  and  the  city;  at  his  left 
the  open  Pacific. 

He  saw  himself  the  day  of  his  advent  aboard  the 
Bertha  in  his  top  hat  and  frock  coat;  saw  himself  later 
"braking  down"  at  the  windlass,  the  Petrel  within  hail 
ing  distance. 

Then  the  pictures  began  to  thicken  fast;  the  derelict 
bark,  Lady  Letty,  rolling  to  her  scuppers,  abandoned  and 
lonely;  the  "boy"  in  the  wheel-box;  Kitchell  wrenching 
open  the  desk  in  the  Captain's  stateroom;  Captain 
Sternersen  buried  at  sea,  his  false  teeth  upside  down; 
the  black  fury  of  the  squall,  and  Moran  at  the  wheel; 
Moran  lying  at  full  length  on  the  deck,  getting  the 
altitude  of  a  star;  Magdalena  Bay;  the  shark-fishing; 
the  mysterious  lifting  and  shuddering  of  the  schooner; 
the  beachcombers'  junk,  with  its  staring  red  eyes; 
Hoang,  naked  to  the  waist,  gleaming  with  sweat  and 
whale-oil;  the  ambergris;  the  race  to  beach  the  sinking 
schooner;  the  never-to-be-forgotten  night  when  he  and 
Moran  had  camped  together  on  the  beach ;  Hoang  taken 
prisoner,  and  the  hideous  filing  of  his  teeth;  the  beach- 


334          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

combers,  silent  and  watchful  behind  their  sand  breast 
works;  the  Chinaman  he  had  killed,  twitching  and 
hiccoughing  at  his  feet;  Moran  turned  Bersark,  bursting 
down  upon  him  through  a  haze  of  smoke;  Charlie  dying 
in  the  hammock  aboard  the  schooner,  ordering  his 
funeral  with  its  "four-piecee  horse";  Coronado;  the 
incongruous  scene  in  the  ballroom;  and,  last  of  all, 
Josie  Herrick,  in  white  duck  and  kid  shoes,  giving  her 
hand  to  Moran  in  her  boots  and  belt,  hatless  as  ever,  her 
sleeves  rolled  up  to  above  the  elbows,  her  white,  strong 
arm  extended,  her  ruddy  face,  and  pale,  milk-blue  eyes 
gravely  observant,  her  heavy  braids,  yellow  as  ripening 
rye,  hanging  over  shoulder  and  breast. 

A  sudden  explosion  of  cold  wind,  striking  down 
blanket-wise  and  bewildering  from  out  the  west,  made 
Wilbur  look  up  quickly.  The  gray  sky  seemed  scudding 
along  close  overhead.  The  bay,  the  narrow  channel  of 
the  Golden  Gate,  the  outside  ocean,  were  all  whitening 
with  crests  of  waves.  At  his  feet  the  huge  green  ground- 
swells  thundered  to  the  attack  of  the  fort's  granite 
foundations.  Through  the  Gate,  the  bay  seemed  rushing 
out  to  the  Pacific.  A  bewildered  gull  shot  by,  tacking 
and  slanting  against  the  gusts  that  would  drive  it  out 
to  sea.  Evidently  the  storm  was  not  far  off.  Wilbur 
Rose  to  his  feet,  and  saw  the  Bertha  Millner,  close  in, 
unbridled  and  free  as  a  runaway  horse,  headed  directly 
for  the  open  sea,  and  rushing  on  with  all  the  impetus  of 
wind  and  tide ! 


XIV 

THE  OCEAN  is  CALLING  FOR  You 

A  LITTLE  while  after  Wilbur  had  set  off  from  the 
station,  while  Moran  was  making  the  last  entries 
in  the  log-book,  seated  at  the  table  in  the  cabin,  Jim 
appeared  at  the  door. 

"Well,"  she  said,  looking  up. 

"China  boy  him  want  go  asho'  plenty  big,  see  um  flen 
up  Chinatown  in  um  city." 

"Shore  leave,  is  it?"  said  Moran.  "You  deserted 
once  before  without  even  saying  good-by;  and  my  hand 
in  the  fire,  you'll  come  back  this  time  dotty  with  opium. 
Get  away  with  you.  We'll  have  men  aboard  here  in  a 
few  days." 

"Can  go?"  inquired  Jim  suavely. 

"I  said  so.  Report  our  arrival  to  your  Six 
Companies." 

Hoang  rowed  Jim  and  the  coolies  ashore,  and  then 
returned  to  the  schooner  with  the  dory  and  streamed 
her  astern.  As  he  passed  the  cabin  door  on  his  way 
forward,  Moran  hailed  him. 

"I  thought  you  went  ashore?"  she  cried. 

"Heap  flaid,"  he  answered.  "Him  other  boy  go  up 
Chinatown ;  him  tell  Sam  Yup ;  I  tink  Sam  Yup  alia  same 
killee  me.  I  no  leave  um  ship,  two,  thlee  day;  bimeby 
I  go  Olegon.  I  stay  topside  ship.  You  wantum  cook, 
I  cook  plenty  fine;  standum  watch  for  you." 

Indeed,  ever  since  leaving  Coronado  the  ex-beach 
comber  had  made  himself  very  useful  about  the  schooner ; 

335 


336          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

had  been,  in  fact,  obsequiousness  itself,  and  seemed  to 
be  particularly  desirous  of  gaming  the  good-will  of  the 
Bertha's  officers.  He  understood  pigeon  English  better 
than  Jim,  and  spoke  it  even  better  than  Charlie  had 
done.  He  acted  the  part  of  interpreter  between  Wilbur 
and  the  hands ;  even  turned  to  in  the  galley  upon  occa 
sion;  and  of  his  own  accord  offered  to  give  the  vessel  a 
coat  of  paint  above  the  water-line. 

Moran  turned  back  to  her  log,  and  Hoang  went 
forward.  Standing  on  the  forward  deck,  he  looked 
after  the  Bertha's  coolies  until  they  disappeared 
behind  a  row  of  pine  trees  on  the  Presidio 
Reservation,  going  cityward.  Wilbur  was  nowhere 
in  sight.  For  a  long  time  Hoang  studied  the  Lifeboat 
Station  narrowly,  while  he  made  a  great  show 
of  coiling  a  length  of  rope.  The  station  was  just  out  of 
hailing  distance.  Nobody  seemed  stirring.  The  whole 
shore  and  back  land  thereabouts  was  deserted;  the  edge 
of  the  city  was  four  miles  distant.  Hoang  returned  to 
the  forecastle  hatch  and  went  below,  groping  under  his 
bunk  in  his  ditty-box. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  exclaimed  Moran  a  moment  later, 
as  the  beachcomber  entered  the  cabin  and  shut  the  door 
behind  him. 

Hoang  did  not  answer ;  but  she  did  not  need  to  repeat 
the  question.  In  an  instant  Moran  knew  very  well  what 
he  had  come  for. 

"God!"  she  exclaimed  under  her  breath,  springing 
to  her  feet.  "  Why  didn't  we  think  of  this  ! " 

Hoang  slipped  his  knife  from  the  sleeve  of  his  blouse. 
For  an  instant  the  old  imperiousness,  the  old  savage 
pride  and  anger,  leaped  again  into  Moran's  breast — 
then  died  away  forever.  She  was  no  longer  the  same 
Moran  of  that  fist-fight  aboard  the  schooner,  when  the 
beachcombers  had  plundered  her  of  her  "loot."  Only 


THE   OCEAN   IS   CALLING   FOR  YOU   337 

a  few  weeks  ago  and  she  would  have  fought  with  Hoang 
without  hesitation  and  without  mercy;  would  have 
wrenched  a  leg  from  the  table  and  brained  him  where  he 
stood.  But  she  had  learned  since  to  know  what  it 
meant  to  be  dependent;  to  rely  for  protection  on  some 
one  who  was  stronger  than  she;  to  know  her  weakness; 
to  know  that  she  was  at  last  a  woman,  and  to  be  proud 
of  it. 

She  did  not  fight;  she  had  no  thought  of  fighting. 
Instinctively  she  cried  aloud:  "Mate — mate!  Oh, 
mate,  where  are  you?  Help  me!"  and  Hoang's  knife 
nailed  the  words  within  her  throat. 

The  "loot"  was  in  a  brass-bound  chest  under  one  of 
the  cabin's  bunks,  stowed  in  two  gunny-bags.  Hoang 
drew  them  out,  knotted  the  two  together,  and,  slinging 
them  over  his  shoulder,  regained  the  deck. 

He  looked  carefully  at  the  angry  sky  and  swelling 
seas,  noting  the  direction  of  the  wind  and  set  of  the 
tide ;  then  went  forward  and  cast  the  anchor  chains  from 
the  windlass  in  such  a  manner  that  the  schooner  must 
inevitably  wrench  free  with  the  first  heavy  strain.  The 
dory  was  still  tugging  at  the  line  astern.  Hoang  dropped 
the  sacks  in  the  boat,  swung  himself  over  the  side,  and 
rowed  calmly  toward  the  station's  wharf.  If  any  notion 
of  putting  to  sea  with  the  schooner  had  entered  the 
obscure,  perverted  cunning  of  his  mind,  he  had  almost 
instantly  rejected  it.  Chinatown  was  his  aim;  once 
there  and  under  the  protection  of  his  tong,  Hoang  knew 
that  he  was  safe.  He  knew  the  hiding-places  that  the 
See  Yup  Association  provided  for  its  members — hiding- 
places  whose  very  existence  was  unknown  to  the  police 
of  the  White  Devil. 

No  one  interrupted — no  one  even  noticed — his  passage 
to  the  station.  At  best  it  was  nothing  more  than  a 
coolie  carrying  a  couple  of  gunny-sacks  across  his 


338          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

shoulder.     Two   hours   later,    Hoang   was   lost    in    San 
Francisco's  Chinatown. 

At  the  sight  of  the  schooner  sweeping  out  to  sea, 
Wilbur  was  for  an  instant  smitten  rigid.  What  had 
happened  ?  Where  was  Moran  ?  Why  was  there  nobody 
on  board?  A  swift,  sharp  sense  of  some  unnamed 
calamity  leaped  suddenly  to  his  throat.  Then  he  was 
aware  of  a  clattering  of  hoofs  along  the  road  that  led  to 
the  fort.  Hodgson  threw  himself  from  one  of  the  horses 
that  were  used  in  handling  the  surf -boat,  and  ran  to  him 
hatless  and  panting. 

"My  God!"  he  shouted.  "Look,  your  schooner,  do 
you  see  her  ?  She  broke  away  after  I  started  to  tell  you 

— to  tell  you — your  girl  there  on  board It  was 

horrible!" 

"Is  she  all  right?"  cried  Wilbur,  at  top  voice,  for  the 
clamour  of  the  gale  was  increasing  every  second. 

"All  right!  No;  they've  killed  her — somebody — 
the  coolies,  I  think — knifed  her !  I  went  on  deck  to  ask 
you  people  to  come  into  the  station  to  have  supper  with 
me " 

"Killed  her— killed  her!  Who?  I  don't  believe 
you " 

"Wait — to  have  supper  with  me,  and  I  found  her 
there  on  the  cabin  floor.  She  was  still  breathing.  I 
carried  her  up  on  deck.  There  was  nobody  else  aboard. 
I  carried  her  up  and  laid  her  on  the  deck — and  she  died 
there.  Just  now  I  came  after  you  to  tell  you,  and — 

"Good  God  Almighty,  man!  who  killed  her?  Where 
is  she  ?  Oh — but  of  course  it  isn't  true  !  How  did  you 
know?  Moran  killed!  Moran  killed!" 

"And  the  schooner  broke  away  after  I  started  ! " 

"Moran  killed!  But — but — she's  not  dead  yet;  we'll 
have  to  see " 


THE   OCEAN   IS   CALLING  FOR  YOU   339 

She  died  on  the  deck;  I  brought  her  up  and  laid  her 


on- 


" How  do  you  know  she's  dead?  Where  is  she? 
Come  on,  we'll  go  right  back  to  her — to  the  station  ! " 

"She's  on  board — out  there!" 

"Where — where  is  she?  My  God,  man,  tell  me  where 
she  is!" 

"Out  there  aboard  the  schooner.  I  brought  her  up 
on  deck — I  left  her  on  the  schooner — on  the  deck — she 
was  stabbed  in  the  throat — and  then  came  after  you  to 
tell  you.  Then  the  schooner  broke  away  while  I  was 
coming;  she's  drifting  out  to  sea  now  ! " 

"Where  is  she?     Where  is  she?" 

"Who — the  girl — the  schooner — which  one?  The 
girl  is  on  the  schooner — and  the  schooner — that's  her, 
right  there — she's  drifting  out  to  sea ! " 

Wilbur  put  both  hands  to  his  temples,  closing  his  eyes. 

"I'll  go  back!"  exclaimed  Hodgson.  "We'll  have 
the  surf -boat  out  and  get  after  her;  we'll  bring  the  body 
back!" 

"No,  no!"  cried  Wilbur,  "it's  better — this  way. 
Leave  her;  let  her  go — she's  going  out  to  sea — out  to  sea 
again!" 

"But  the  schooner  won't  live  two  hours  outside  in 
this  weather;  she'll  go  down!" 

"It's  better — that  way — let  her  go.     I  want  it  so.  " 

"I  can't  stay!  I  can't  stay  here!"  said  the  other. 
"There's  a  storm  coming  up,  and  I've  got  to  be  at  my 
station. " 

Wilbur  did  not  answer;  he  was  watching  the  schooner. 

"  I  can't  stay  ! "  cried  the  other  again.  "  If  the  patrol 
should  signal — I  can't  stop  here;  I  must  be  on  duty. 
Come  back;  you  can't  do  anything !" 

"No!" 

"  I  have  got  to  go  ! "     Hodgson  ran  back,  swung  him- 


340          MORAN  OF  THE  LADY  LETTY 

self  on  the  horse,  and  rode  away  at  a  furious  gallop, 
inclining  his  head  against  the  gusts. 

And  the  schooner  in  a  whirl  of  flying  spray,  white 
scud  and  driving  spoondrift,  her  cordage  humming,  her 
forefoot  churning,  the  flag  at  her  peak  straining  stiff  in 
the  gale,  came  up  into  the  narrow  passage  of  the  Golden 
Gate,  riding  high  upon  the  outgoing  tide.  On  she  came, 
swinging  from  crest  to  crest  of  the  waves  that  kept  her 
company,  and  that  ran  to  meet  the  ocean,  shouting  and 
calling  out  beyond  there  under  the  low,  scudding  clouds. 

Wilbur  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  old  fort.  Erect 
upon  its  granite  ledge  he  stood,  and  watched  and  waited. 

Not  once  did  the  Bertha  Millner  falter  in  her  race. 
Like  an  unbitted  horse,  all  restraint  shaken  off,  she 
ran  free  toward  the  ocean  as  to  her  pasture-land.  She 
came  nearer,  nearer,  rising  and  rolling  with  the  seas,  her 
bowsprit  held  due  west,  pointing  like  a  finger  out  to  sea, 
to  the  west — out  to  the  world  of  romance.  And  then  at 
last,  as  the  little  vessel  drew  opposite  the  old  fort  and 
passed  not  one  hundred  yards  away,  Wilbur,  watching 
from  the  rampart,  saw  Moran  lying  upon  the  deck  with 
outstretched  arms  and  calm,  upturned  face;  lying  upon 
the  deck  of  that  lonely  fleeing  schooner  as  upon  a  bed  of 
honour,  still  and  calm,  her  great  braids  smooth  upon  her 
breast,  her  arms  wide;  alone  with  the  sea:  alone  in  death 
as  she  had  been  in  life.  She  passed  out  of  his  life  as  she 
had  come  into  it — alone,  upon  a  derelict  ship,  abandoned 
to  the  sea.  She  went  out  with  the  tide,  out  with  the 
storm;  out,  out,  out  to  the  great  gray  Pacific  that  knew 
her  and  loved  her,  and  that  shouted  and  called  for  her, 
and  thundered  in  the  joy  of  her  as  she  came  to  meet  him 
like  a  bride  to  meet  a  bridegroom. 

"Good-by,  Moran!"  shouted  Wilbur  as  she  passed. 
"  Good-by,  good-by,  Moran  !  You  were  not  for  me — 
not  for  me!  The  ocean  is  calling  for  you,  dear;  don't 


THE   OCEAN   IS   CALLING  FOR  YOU   341 

you  hear  him  ?  Don't  you  hear  him  ?  Good-by,  good- 
by,  good-by !" 

The  schooner  swept  by,  shot  like  an  arrow  through 
the  swirling  currents  of  the  Golden  Gate,  and  dipped 
and  bowed  and  courtesied  to  the  Pacific  that  reached 
toward  her  his  myriad  curling  fingers.  They  enfolded 
her,  held  her  close,  and  drew  her  swiftly,  swiftly  out  to 
the  great  heaving  bosom,  tumultuous  and  beating  in 
its  mighty  joy,  its  savage  exultation  of  possession. 

Wilbur  stood  watching.  The  little  schooner  lessened 
in  the  distance — became  a  shadow  in  the  mist  and  flying 
spray — a  shadow  moving  upon  the  face  of  the  great 
waste  of  water.  Fainter  and  fainter  she  grew,  vanished, 
reappeared,  was  heaved  up  again — a  mere  speck  upon 
the  western  sky — a  speck  that  dwindled  and  dwindled, 
then  slowly  melted  away  into  the  gray  of  the  horizon. 


, 

LOAN  DEPT 


.  General  Library 
University  ?f  Calif^rnj 


